The High School of Notre Dame
by dochar ar bith ann
Summary: A modern retelling of the Disney, set in modern-day Quebec. Welcome to NDCHS, home of a tyrannical VP, a handful of rebellious Romani drama kids, a charming but befuddled football captain, and a new student unlike anything the school's ever seen. Edited!
1. This is All Around the World

Hello everyone!

Finally, I've started writing this! It's been kicking around my head for ages now. It was inspired by you good people, and is most certainly not the first of its kind.

Summary: A modern retelling of Disney's 'The Hunchback of Notre Dame', set in modern-day, English-speaking Quebec. Notre Dame Catholic High School faces turbulent times. Vice Principal Claude Frollo is not a man to be trifled with, and the hatred he harbors for 'Gypsies' spells bad news for the large Romany population of the school. Now may not be th best of times for his stepson, a highly unusual case who has been homeschooled his entire life, to decide he wants to attend high school. But perhaps somebody 'different' may be exactly what Notre Dame needs.  
Rating: T (for occasional swearing and political incorrectness).

For the partially illustrated version, search 'THSOND' on Deviantart- my username is 'Linnellisgod'.

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The High School of Notre Dame  
Chapter One  
This is All Around the World

The windows were curtainless and open, and warm afternoon light spilled through them. It lit up the dust motes in the air and the four stained-glass windchimes that hung from the upper windowsills; it bathed the room in blue and green, red and gold.

The room was not large, but colour and light seemed to open it wide. Not far from the window was a low desk, littered with small wooden carvings in various stages of completion. Some had been painted, some varnished, some were still rough, but all displayed an unusual artistry and care. They were simple, yet graceful; figurines, objects, animals, pieces of nature. A block of pale wood sat slightly apart from them, surrounded by wood shavings and with a wood-chisel set beside it. One side of the block had been hollowed away, and from within, the delicate form of a bird's nest was taking shape. Posters of all kinds covered pale olive-green walls- unframed acrylic paintings, blown-up photographs, prints of more famous pieces of art, posters for films and rock bands. A small bed sat in the corner. A collection of crosses hung above its head, arranged in a circle around an image that had been carved with exhaustive care into a flat, square piece of oak wood; it detailed a mother holding a very young child. An onlooker might have assumed it was the Virgin with the Messiah. To its maker, sometimes it was, and sometimes it was someone different.

Quasimodo breathed the fresh air, and wondered if there was an actual taste to freedom. If there was, it would be that end-of-summer sweetness- wildflowers on a new, cool wind. He looked up, expression distant, and watched the movement of the windchimes as they stirred in the breeze. Then he turned and came away from the window. There was a cool sweat on his brow, and he swallowed anxiously, filled with unease at what he was about to do.

--

"High School?"

Quasimodo flinched very slightly, but did not break eye contact. He had expected this.

Claude Frollo looked down at him from his great height, taken aback and angry, and then closed his eyes and sighed. "My dear boy, though you may look it, you are not a simpleton." His study looked out onto a panorama of the town, and he swept a hand towards the open window. His expression was wearied but stern. His deep voice exuded authority. "The world out there is not ready for you. It's not safe, it's not kind. What do you want to go to high school for, anyway? _Teenagers_ are the worst of the lot. Children would be afraid; teenagers will simply hate you."

"I don't think they're really that bad-" began Quasimodo, but Frollo held up a hand, cutting him short.

"They are, Quasimodo, they are. I know. Every half-hour there's another in my office- students without respect for a soul but themselves." His face hardened. "Gypsies, more often than not. Notre Dame is _full_ of them."

Quasimodo wondered if Frollo's description of the large Romany population at NDCHS was meant to scare him. It wasn't having the desired effect- not that it needed to. He could think of hundreds of reasons to be frightened _without_ adopting his stepfather's racist ideals, thank you. He took a long, slow breath. "I- I- Look, I don't care about all of that. I've got to face it at some point, right?" He gestured weakly around him, acutely aware of the cold look on Frollo's face, the sweat on his face, the lump in his throat. "I'm not just going to stay cooped up here forever, am I?"

Frollo's look was entirely readable; _Yes, obviously, you are_.

The boy soldiered on. "I talked to Mr. Solance about it and he says I'm about two years ahead. I could- I could do grade ten no problem; at least I'd be with other people my age…"

"I'd like you to be with as few other people as possible."

If Hugo were here, he would have made some kind of massively inappropriate remark, but mercifully Laverne's nephews had not stopped in today. Quasimodo banished that thought from his mind, and tried to stand as straight as he was able. "I'm not afraid," he lied.

"You ought to be," said Frollo. Then he waved a dismissive hand, rolling his eyes. "Well, _do_ it if you want to. I hope you realize I can't help you, once you're there. I can't show any favouritism. You won't be a special case."

I don't think even you can keep me from being a 'special case', thought Quasimodo, and I doubt you'd ever show_ me _favouritism. But even as he thought it, he knew he was being unfair. For all his bigotry, Quasimodo had never been able to think of Frollo as a bad man. He knew enough of the story to piece together how he had come to live under the care of this man who was not his father. But he still wondered _why. _Frollo hated children, and_ he _was hardly the sort of son most parents dreamed of. "I know," he replied, still trying his best to appear brave, determined, ready to face the world.

"Well then, get on with you!" He looked annoyed. "I won't stop you. Won't be me they tear to shreds. But if it were me, boy, wearingyour face, I'd want to keep it hidden for as long as possible." He sat down, opening a drawer in his impressive mahogany desk, and waved the boy away.

Quasimodo left the study, bowed low by nature, an expression of both worry and happiness on his deformed and misshapen face.

--

Laverne was pleased when he told her, and he knew she would have been angry to hear anything else. She had quite a magnificant gift for grumpiness, borne out of hard knocks and incredible old age. She bent over her sewing machine, gnarled hands never halting in motion, and spoke around the two long, plastic-topped pins in her mouth. She was altering a shirt, for him. "Well I should damn well hope so. 'Bout time."

Quasimodo's misshapen mouth bent into a rare, sardonic smile. "Nice to know you understand all my concerns about this."

She softened, as he knew she would. She understood perfectly well. Frollo might have been his legal guardian, but she had raised him. She brushed grey hair from her old, pale eyes. "He knows you can do it- he just doesn't want to let on, the old bastard."

She'd never been one to sugarcoat her language for a child. Frollo was about thirty years her junior, but his fastidiousness made him seem older. Quasimodo let out a breath of a laugh.

"I'll order your uniform tomorrow," she told him. "You don't happen to know what colour it is? It's a pain in the ass to get cloth during the school rush."

The bolt of cloth, he thought. There was always the cloth; extra material added to the back of the shirt to accomodate his twisted spinal column, his massively humped back. Other small adjustments would have to be made; pants hemmed to make up for crooked, uneven legs, sleeves loosened to make room for disproportionally thick, almost apelike arms; but the bolt of cloth and the back was the big job. "White shirt," he said, "Dark blue vest. Wool." He paid attention to colour. "Not navy, more like the colour of my shoes, you know?"

"The clown shoes?" She was teasing him, not that he didn't have oversized feet. She'd bought him high-tops in the first place.

"Yeah, them."

"I'll get it as soon as I can." She broke from her sewing to tousle his red hair, half affectionate, half intentionally annoying.

--

Victor and Hugo were the only people his own age he knew, and while they were old friends, he truly did hope they weren't an overall representation of ordinary teenagers. They were Laverne's screwy nephews, and they only came over on days when Frollo would be mostly out of the house. They brought with them gaming consoles, movies, and anything else that could annoy their elderly Aunt.

Hugo, loud, farsical and fat, clapped an arm around Quasimodo's misshapen shoulder, taking him by surprise. He'd known they were coming, but hadn't heard them come in. "So! How's Prince Harry?"

Knowing he would't get any more work done on it this morning, Quasimodo carefully pushed away the nighttime cityscape he had been painting and began to collect his brushes and paints. It wasn't that Hugo was intentionally destructive, it was just that things got damaged around him. "Why do I even bother trying to go to school? I get teased perfectly well at home."

"Kindly forgive the courseness of my comrade," said Victor, and then giggled at the alliteration. Quasimodo sincerely hoped he'd managed to find a happy medium through the dychotomic influence of Laverne's nephews. Victor was Hugo's direct opposite- lean and muscular, he would have been relatively handsome if he'd lost the regal tilt of his chin and stopped wearing glasses he didn't even need. "We're thrilled for you."

"_Thrilled_," mimicked Hugo in an airy falsetto, affecting what he probably thought was a posh British accent, "just thrilled. Look how ambiguously camp I am."

Quasimodo was quite used to acting the peacekeeper when Laverne wasn't around. "Alright, shut up, guys," he said gently, dislodging Hugo's grip from his shoulder.

" 'Verne says it's time for church," said Hugo, slighty sulkily.

"Oh. Right."

--

In Quebec, there are any number of ancient catholic churches, dotted throughout the towns and the cities like coffeeshops. The small ones often lost attendance, switching to other denominations or being transformed into warehouses when they couldn't pay the bills, but the big ones always seemed to survive through the ages. Notre Dame Basilica was one of the great survivors. A monster of stone, wrought iron and stained glass, her steeple was visible anywhere in town. She was beautiful within and without, a masterpiece of the faith. If that's _a_ house of God, people said, imagine where he normally lives.

Almost no-one was there yet. Laverne, in a coral-pink sunday dress and a long purple coat despite the heat, ushered her nephews inside the massive double doors. Frollo was not with them, since he generally preferred to go to church early and alone. Quasimodo waved to them, then unlocked a small side door with a key he kept in his pocket, on a keychain he'd made from one of his first carvings. That had been years ago. He'd been doing this for a very long time.

The door opened in on a winding stair, and he bounded up it with a kind of loping, uneven grace. It went on a long time, and at the top, he came to a wood-and-metal room, largely bare except for a ladder leading to a trapdoor in the ceiling, and a great number of ropes which hung down from the room above through small holes cut in the floor. They varied in thickness, and some were woven from different materials; he knew which were coarse and which were slippery by sight. He checked his watch, and then the small clock that hung on one wall, and then did a quick examination of the ropes. Of the twenty-one, none had frayed since his last visit, which was fortunate, since he wouldn't have had time to replace them. Satisfied, Quasimodo clambered up the ladder in a matter of seconds, his thick, powerful upper body giving him a strength and agility that was more simian than human. He opened the trapdoor, sure of his movements, and pulled himself up through the hole.

Twenty-one ropes for twenty-one bells. The belltower was dark, but in an instant he had thrown open the ancient, heavy window-shutters, and light came streaming in. This was part of the ritual. _Wake his people, and call them to him, with songs from angel's lips..._ He'd read that somewhere. Morning revealed each of his angels, giving it a familiar gleam. Polished brass shone like gold, copper glowed fine blue and green, cast iron remained sullen black.

"Good morning," said Quasimodo, which was a stupid thing to say to a bunch of metal noisemakers, but he said it anyway. He limped along the line of bells, brushing his rough, thick hand across each cold metal flank as though stroking prize horses. When he had touched each bell, he bowed to them; another piece of ritual, purposeless but somehow important; and retreated down the ladder.

Once back in the ringing chamber, he carefully put on a pair of earplugs. The sound would be muffled by the wood flooring between him and the bellfry, but even so, they were easily enough to deafen if you were not careful. People forgot how huge, how powerful, the bells truly were. He had heard stories, from Frollo, of ringers who could hear nothing at all but the sounds of the bells... and worst of all, he thought, with shivers of fascinated horror, was the story of the Nine Tailors, the murder mystery that had been no murder, simply an accident.

...Because if you didn't know, and you went up into the bellfry as they were being rung...

...First your eardrums would rupture, and then the blood vessels in your nose, and then, as you screamed but could not hear, you would slip out of consciousness and succumb to concussion and internal hemorrhaging as blow upon blow was rained down upon you by the sheer, astonishing, percussive force of sound.

It began, ten minutes from the beginning of the service, with a slow, even toll. He worked rhythmically on the rope, pulling it down with a smooth stroke and then following the gentle yet powerful rebound that lifted him almost clear off the ground. This part was easy. Then he would add in some higher chimes, from the two smallest bells. They were really quite easy, with almost no rebound at all, and since invariably the smaller would swing first, he could get a nice grace-note effect from ringing two bells of slightly different sizes at once. Next, he added middle-range tones, racing from rope to rope to keep the notes of the peal continuous. By gathering the ropes in his hands he could ring multiple bells at once, but the difficulty was making the rhythms of it musical. Chaos was fun, but it got boring quite quickly. When the effort of racing back and forth began to grow too much, he began to remove notes, until just as the mass began, there was only the solitary, rhythmic toll once more.

He rested for several minutes. The bells wouldn't be needed again until the offertory. The mass passed slowly; when he did not need to be ringing, he would follow another narrow staircase to a small balcony alcove, so that he could listen to the mass. Frollo read, as usual, and people always said he read with conviction. To Quasimodo, his orator's _Basso Profondo _suggested convictions, but not those that the passage of scripture referred to.

He rang the final peals announcing the end of mass, and waited, panting, for the bulk of the congregation to leave. When they all seemed to be gone, he took the longest staircase and met Laverne outside. Victor had pirated the front passenger seat of the car, so Quasimodo sat in the back with Hugo.

As they pulled out of the parking lot, Hugo poked Quasimodo, attracting his attention. He was enthralled by something outside Quasimodo's window. "Hey, check it out. Bohemian _rhapsody_ at two o'clock."

Quasimodo followed his hungry gaze. On the street sidewalk stood a girl of seventeen or eighteen, with a backpack on her back and a small mutt dog at her side. She was looking at the church, and he saw her face in profile- dark skin; flawless features; large, brilliant eyes. Waves of thick black hair fell from a purple curchief pushed loosely up her brow. Her clothing and colouration suggested Romany heritage. She was curvy and athletic, which was usually all it took to attract Hugo's attention, and Quasi wondered if the nephews were too busy looking at her body to notice the statuesque perfection of her face.

From the front, Victor laughed. "She's out of your league, Hugo- and _taller_ than you, I should think."

"Just puts me at a better vantage point, if ya know what I mean." He nudged Quasimodo in the ribcage. Quasimodo ignored him, his eyes fixed on the face of the Gypsy girl.

"I think he's in love," said Hugo, sniggering, but at that moment she looked in the direction of their car, and Quasimodo, on instinct, ducked out of sight.

* * *

Well, there we are- first installment. More coming very soon. Please R&R! Flames will be utterly ignored, and are therefore relatively pointless.

Thanks to Attaloi and my mother, for being my beta-readers and being awesome.

-Mostly Harmless (which is what my penname means, in Gaelic).


	2. Diamonds on the Soles of her Shoes

Back so soon?

Here's another chapter for you all.

For the partially illustrated version, search 'THSOND' on Deviantart.

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Chapter two  
She's Got Diamonds on the Soles of her Shoes

Esmeralda met the others on the high end of Rue Van Gogh, where the curbside was wide and the tourists seemed to flock. Nobody tipped as much as tourists, provided you were prepared to politely explain that no, Romani wasn't the same as Muslim, Indian or even Greek.

Some of her crowd seemed distressed by the fast-approaching end of summer, but Esmeralda exalted in it. Her summer work had ended, officially, the previous day. Soon she would be starting another year at NDCHS. Supposedly, grade Eleven was the best year of high school. You were old enough to be totally comfortable, and you still had an entire_ year _before you had to worry about leaving home. She would be starting new classes, she wouldn't have to worry about a job, and before all that she had four glorious days of complete freedom.

Gaspard and Leon and Clopin were already there, and it hadn't been confirmed whether Jas would be coming. They had been sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk, strumming guitars, and as they saw her coming they waved and called out but did not get up. Esmeralda set her backpack down and sat cross-legged on the curb beside them, so that they formed a curve facing the street, and Djali, her beagle-terrier mutt, settled at their feet. Djali was good for extra tips- jaunty and clever, he would jump for treats and wag his tail and loved to be petted.

"Finally," said Clopin, satisfied, stretching out his long legs. "Nous pouvons commencer." Clopin was a Francophone first, but his English was essentially perfect. The others were moderately Bilingual, but Gaspard was French and Leon and Esmeralda were both English, so when they were together they generally spoke Fringlish- a jangling, slanged combination of the two. "As-tu apportais le thingy?"

Esmeralda opened her pack, feeling past her bagged lunch and light jacket for the distinct shape of her tambourine. She tugged it out, setting it jingling madly. "Yeah, but je veux jouer aux guitar, too."

Clopin shrugged. It was her tambourine-dancing that took in the most cash, for obvious reasons, but she could strum decently enough. "D'accord, whatever. Tu chantes maintenant. _Bad Moon Rising_, on start avec ça."

They played it. Leon stole guitar solos to show off his rather handy picking; Esme and Clopin passed the vocal line back and forth. She swayed to the beat, tambourine tapping off-beats aganst her hip, while Gaspard slapped a bass beat on the face of his guitar. At one point they forgot the words, laughing over it without breaking rhythm. People dropped money into their cases; a few gathered to watch. Next they did _All My Loving_, and she danced a little more enthusiastically, twisting and sweeping and mixing hints of Hip-Hop with standard Rock and flirtatious touches from the rather more honest traditional Romany dance. Halfway through, she tossed her tambourine into the air and let it fall on the sidewalk, and people cheered. Clopin kept an eye on the change gathering in their guitar cases, and smiled a satisfied smile.

"Do people actually give you _money_ to do that?" asked a loud voice. Two thick-set teenagers had cut through the handful of watchers, and the one who had spoken gave the guitar case nearest to him a careless kick. His companion guffawed. Both of them were clearly on their way to the football pitch in the park, and they still wore their jerseys and shoulder pads. The speaker had the sort of beard only a teenager could be proud of, and the other had a missing tooth and a football tucked under one arm.

The four Gypsies shot them contemptuous looks, but did not stop playing. This had happened to them before.

There was a thump, as the gap-toothed one's boot collided with the side of the guitar case. Coins rolled and tumbled across the sidewalk. Esmeralda turned slightly, momentarily stunned; the others were already on their knees, fumbling after the spilled change.

A hand tapped the gap-toothed one's shoulder, and he whipped around, in the action of aiming another kick. The hand belonged to a tall, well-built blond boy, a bit older than Esmeralda. He wore the same football uniform as the other two, but he had a better-groomed look about him; he had a neat little goatee, and had clearly shaved that day. Beside him was an enourmous, shaggy white hound, which he held by a leather leash.

The blond one smiled slyly at the other two, and, without looking down, snatched the football from under gap-tooth's arm. Then he coiled back and tossed it skyward in a practised, powerful motion. It spun away in an enormous, perfect arc, its landing obscured by the crowds of Sunday-morning shoppers.

Beard and Gap-tooth looked at him, taken completely by surprise.

The blond one tossed down his dog's leash. "Achilles, fetch!" he commanded, grinning, and the dog tore down the street like a massive fork of lightening, trailing its leash behind it.

He turned to the two staring footballers, who were watching the dog's progress with horror. "You'd best go and get it before practise. Sorry about that. I'm trying to teach Achilles to _bring back_ the stuff he's fetching, but he seems to prefer chewing on it."

At that, Gap-tooth gave him a furious glance, and, abandoning their previous entertainment, scrambled off after the dog. The blond boy laughed, a loud and deep laugh, and turned away.

Esmeralda, tense and scowling throughout this whole spectacle, rolled her eyes. Idiot male bravado. The blond one might have been cute, but he was a showoff.

"Eggball hooligans," said Clopin, dropping handfuls of change into the now-righted case, "Ne vous-enquitez pas about those idiots."

--

Quasimodo had seen the school, but never from the inside. The main doors opened in on a wide central space, brightly lit by high flourescant panels and wide banks of windows. Part of this central hall had a high ceiling of skylights, three storeys up, and one section had a much lower ceiling, supported by pillars and decorated by hanging origami sculptures. At the middle were two green picnic tables made of scuffed plastic. One corner led directly into offices; the other three opened into wide corridors lined with lockers. At the far end of the room was a wide stairwell and three glass double-doors leading to playing feilds outside. Wax gleamed on the floor tiles, and the colour scheme was an immaculate white and blue. It was empty; students would not be arriving for another three days.

He'd been greeted by a woman called Ms. Timmons, who was an educational assistant and counselor and often toured new students around the building and was always available if he needed help. She'd been shaking like a leaf during her little prepared speech. Quasimodo felt slightly sorry for her.

Ms. Timmons was clearly trying very hard to be nice, but he could sense how uncomfortable she was. She was quite a tiny woman. He was shorter than her, because of the curve of his spine, but her torso was about the width of his forearm. She was about thirty, had dyed blond hair and small frameless glasses, and babbled when she was nervous.

"This is the Atrium," said Ms. Timmons. She indicated the doors to their right. "Those are the offices and student service rooms. Down that hallway, the gyms and cafeteria. It's, um, kind of crowded usually. Down that hallway is the tech wing. Over there, that's the arts wing, which is the biggest wing. Most of your classes will be upstairs on the second floor, all the ordinary classrooms are up there. There's stairwells, um, there and there. The Library's on the second floor, too. It's mostly the higher grades on the third floor but you're taking a grade eleven History course so you'll have a class there. Um."

Quasimodo blinked, trying to take in information at the pace she was giving it. "So the classrooms on the ground floor are..."

She looked at the walls, rather than meeting his eyes, and he imagined she was trying not to stare. "Classes that require special equipment. Um. Like the music room and computer labs and woodshops and things. Except for the physics and chemistry labs- the science department is all upstairs. I don't know why. Too big for the ground floor, maybe."

Quasimodo ran over the locations in his mind. It all seemed a bit daunting, but he knew he'd have more to worry about than layout. "Okay. I think I can keep that straight." That was more for her benefit than his own.

He looked down at his timetable. He'd never had a timetable before, but he could tell that this one was a little unusual. They'd laid out the entire year for him, eight courses over two semesters, complete with teachers and classrooms. Some were grade eleven courses rather than grade ten, and Math was entirely missing.

Mr. Solance, Quasimodo's tutor, had been very successful in teaching him, though success was not difficult when classes consisted of six hours a day with a single bright, creative and unusually disciplined pupil. Quasimodo had most of the necessary credits to begin grade twelve, if he had wanted to, but it had been agreed that he should stay with students around his own age. His Grade Ten courses had been mixed with Grade Eleven courses so that there might still be some challenge to the work, though Math, which he'd completed for the entirety of high school during his homeschooling, had been left out altogether. He had been added to classes wherever there was room, and he had two arts courses, this semester, besides a French and a History; Visual Arts, which had been a no-brainer, and Vocal. It was apparently a new course, and the idea interested him.

He ran his finger along the fine text of the timetable. "So this term I've got one on the third floor, one on the second and two in the arts wing."

Ms. Timmons nodded, looking like a deer in headlights. "Did you want to see where your locker is?"

Quasimodo had forgotten about his locker. "Oh- yes, please."

It turned out to be on the second floor, blue, indistinguishable from all others, tall enough that he could just reach the top of it. Number 246. That had made him smile.

The tour concluded. It might have gone on longer, but he assured her he'd be able to find his way around without any difficulty. He had wanted to spare her further discomfort, because she seemed so desperately nice and ordinary and being in her presence made him feel very awkward. It was decided that he wouldn't come to school until a day after the other students. This would give classroom teachers time to explain things to their classes, and would also mean that on the day he did arrive, actual work would be beginning and with any luck he might avoid unwanted attention. The idea of 'explaining things' filled him with an unnamed dread, and he was prepared to arrive at a separate time if it meant missing it. Unwanted attention would be unavoidable, but maybe it could be reduced a little bit.

--

The offices were always crowded on the first day of school, but there was something about the look of the blond boy that got him noticed immediately. He was tall, broad-shouldered and well-built, and he had an upright bearing; he seemed patient and calm amidst the chaos. He cleared his throat very slightly.

The man behind the high desk steepled his fingers. "Ah, Phoebus, is it? Captain of the, eh, Football team."

Phoebus had never spoken to the Vice Principal, but he already disliked the man's manner. There was something off-putting and almost reptilian in his wide, frosty smile. "Yessir," he replied, "I'd like to ask about, uh, the football tryouts. We'd like to get the team started as soon as possible. I was hoping we could put something in the morning announcements sometime soon."

Mr. Frollo was taller than Phoebus, and he looked down his nose at the blond boy. His smile widened. "Polite. I like that. Yes, Phoebus, I imagine we could put something in very soon- Perhaps even today, if you have it ready. But I have something else I'd like to speak to you about- if you wouldn't mind stepping into my office for a moment?" He took a few steps to the right and opened a door, gesturing for Phoebus to enter.

Phoebus obeyed, feeling very much like a herded sheep. Mr. Frollo closed the door behind him, and they were alone in a stark, neat office.

"What's this all about, sir?" asked Phoebus, feeling uneasy. He'd never been to a principal's office, and he'd hoped to keep it that way.

"Well-" Frollo looked as if he were thinking of something distasteful. "I had hoped you could help me. You see, Phoebus, there's been an emerging drug problem in Notre Dame, over the past few years."

Phoebus frowned. From all he'd known, Notre Dame had been relatively free of drugs, for a high school.

Mr. Frollo seemed to notice his disbelief. "Yes, surprising, isn't it. I'm afraid it's mostly an underground operation. They've kept themselves very well hidden from more right-thinking students. The chief source of the narcotics- Marijuana mostly, but some Cocaine, we believe- seems to be a group called the 'Miracle Workers'. We don't know who the members are, or where they meet, or where their supplies are coming from, but in order to protect our students we need to learn these things."

Phoebus had heard of the Miracle Workers. It wasn't a drug club, though it probably did contain the odd druggie; mostly, it was a Gypsy club. The Romani had their own subculture, which, from what he could gather, consisted of a heavy emphasis on the arts and a certain contempt for authority. Though when authority was Frollo, Phoebus found himself thinking, then he was sympathetic to their perspective.

"You," Mr. Frollo resumed, oily and flattering, "are a leader amongst the students. They would tell you things they would never tell us."

"You're asking me to be a _snitch_, sir?"

"Not a _snitch,_ Phoebus. This is for the good of the entire school. We must protect our children from being misled. Now, about your Football announcement- do you have it ready to be read, or shall we put it in tomorrow?"

Phoebus frowned. "It, uh, might have to be tomorrow, sir."

"Well then, fine, get along with you. Bring it to the main office tomorrow morning before class." He gestured toward the door, distracted by several papers on his desk, then looked up at Phoebus. "You will keep an ear open for me, won't you, Phoebus?"

"Uh, yes, sir," said Phoebus, before he realized he was saying it. Frollo looked satisfied, and the blond boy turned to leave. He was confused- and for some reason or other, he could not get the image of the Gypsy girl from the other day, the one who had been dancing to _All My Loving_, out of his head.

--

Clopin Trouillefou had been delighted to discover that second period, right before lunch and the always-enjoyable Drama class, he had a spare. One of the definite perks of grade twelve. He'd thought about annoying Mr. Cummings's music class for a while, but, in the end, had fallen to lying sprawled on the Atrium picnic tables, counting his extracurricular pins and talking to his puppet.

It took him a moment to notice the little grade nine girl who was watching him with wide-eyed curiousity, but when he did, he rolled over and sat on the picnic table bench, with his back to the table itself. He held up the little glove-puppet, which was a miniature version of himself, complete with shoulder-length dark hair, long nose, goatee, and single hoop earring. It wore a tiny, felt version of his normal puppeteering costume; purple and yellow, with little bells and a little purple face mask and a big piratical feathered hat. With a wiggle of his fingers, Clopin made it wave to her. _"Bonjour! How do you do!"_ It called, in a tiny, squeaky voice that came from the very edge of his mouth.

She giggled. "I knew you were the guy from Trés Fou."

It wasn't a very hard thing to recognize, he thought, since he still had the bells on his shoes and the mask pushed up his forehead. He'd had to take it off for Physics this morning, but they'd let him wear it for Drama. "That I am, ma chérie," he said with a flourishing bow. He wished he'd brought his hat, so that he could tip it. "I take it you frequent my little puppet theatre?"

She nodded. There was a bit of a starstruck look in her eyes. "Yeah, with my little brother. He says you're crazy."

Clopin could not help but be won over by the frankness of younger children. He smiled, widely, stroking his goatee with one hand. "Your brother has it all wrong."

"No he doesn't!" Squeaked puppet, on his other hand.

"Quiet, you," said Clopin.

__

"Run away, he's a madman, escape while you can!"

Clopin swatted the puppet with his free hand, while the girl burst into high-pitched giggles. "Ignore him. Tell me, are you new to our dear Notre Dame?"

A nod, and she suppressed her giggles. He could tell by her look that she was new; too tiny to be more than a grade nine, uncomfortable in her new uniform, clutching a bathroom pass. After the first week or so, you stopped asking for passes and just went.

She looked at him with wide blue eyes. "Have you heard about that grade ten kid who's supposed to be here tomorrow, who's like,_ deformed_ or something?"

"I have," said Clopin. He returned to stroking his beard with a long-fingered hand. "I'm rather interested to meet him, I must say."

She looked at him, shocked. "Really?"

Now the innocent frankness was a little less cute, but he couldn't blame her. She was young. "Well yes of course," he gushed, as if it ought to be the most obvious thing in the world, "just imagine the stories he could tell!"

She looked completely confused.

"I imagine he's had a pretty unusual life," resumed Clopin, completely undaunted. "Probably different from yours or mine in ways we could not possibly imagine. You could learn a lot from someone like that." He leaned back against the table, eyes on the little girl, and his expression became more serious. "What's sad to think is that he will be treated with cruelty- simply because people are frightened by what they don't understand."

She was silent for a moment, her eyes down, and then she seemed to understand. "Yeah," she said, "that is sad."

Clopin smiled at his young pupil. "Perhaps you should go back to class, before your teachers think you are skipping."

The little girl made a face. "I hate science though. Okay, I guess. Seeya later."

* * *

More to be expected soon. Please review!

Thanks to Attaloi and my mother, for betaing. And to any reviewers. You know I love you guys.

-Mostly Harmless


	3. We All Will be Recieved

Hello again.

Here's another chapter for you all. Brief swearing in this one. I'm sre you guys can handle it.

For the partially illustrated version, search 'THSOND' on Deviantart.

Chapter three  
We All Will Be Recieved

Quasimodo checked that he hadn't forgotten anything in Laverne's car. Then he smiled at her, a small smile that had both terror and humour in it. She returned it, seeming to feel that no words were necessary, and ruffled his hair as he ducked out of the car door. It was annoying, but he was grateful to her for doing it.

The new uniform fit him surprisingly well. Laverne had gotten quite handy with a sewing machine. The white shirt was lightweight, and came only to the elbows, which was fortunate. He'd never found a long-sleeved shirt that would accomodate his thick forearms without massive alterations. Over the shirt was a dark blue v-neck vest with the school insignia on the breast; four letters, fitted into the corners of a stylized white cross. NDHS. The pants were dark grey, and formal-looking, and the shoes were black leather. Laverne had told him, when he'd first tried it on, that the uniform went with his eyes, and they'd had a good laugh about that. His eyes were neither blue nor green, and it hardly mattered what went with them because you could only really _see_ one of them anyway. There was a weird mound of bony flesh over one of his eyebrows, and it made it difficult to see out of his left eye.

There were a few teenagers scattered about the school parking lot, mostly at the small smoking section about a hundred yards away, and even from a distance he could see that they were staring. On the sidewalk in front of the main doors, in the hot September sun, he suddenly realized how very alone he was.

He gave Laverne one last look, but she was glancing behind her, backing the car out of the parking space.

He ran a hand through his hair, wondering if he were going mad. Then, the unevenness of his walk hightened by the weight of the shoulder-bag full of pencils and binders and scholarly necessities (he'd thought a backpack would just be asking for trouble), he limped towards the great double-doors. There was a heartbeat's pause. Then he pushed it open.

Inside, the school buzzed. Waves of blue and white spilled from corridors and stairwells, moving in and out of the Atrium like great shoals of fish. For several seconds, as he slipped through the doors, no-one noticed him. And then a few people looked over and stared, and soon almost all of the were doing it.

He walked through them like a condemned man mounting the gallows. A path seemed to clear for him of its own accord. Whispers. Stares. He was consciously aware of being shorter than everyone else, and was not sure where to look- up, at their faces, or anywhere else, which was really where he wanted to look. In the end, he looked all around him, and tried not to think about how many people were_ looking at him. _

Some of them were trying to be nice about it, smiling in his vague direction, but he could see lines of discomfort on their faces and he was afraid to make eye contact. Most of them were simply staring, wide-eyed and even in some cases open-mouthed. Whispers were all around him, mostly indistinct, but he caught the odd word or phrase.

-_Deformed-_

_-look, they changed his uniform-_

_-Wow, look at his face._

_-Uh, cosmetic surgury or something?_

_-Geez, poor guy-_

_-Oh my God._

He wished there was something he could have said, to break the tension, something that would have made them all laugh and decide he was alright and go back to whatever they'd been doing. He could think of nothing. His mouth was dry. He doubted he could have spoken even if he'd had the words. He looked at the sea of faces with wide, frightened eyes, and sped up. If he could make it to the stairwell, the way to his locker would be a little less crowded.

It seemed to take an eternity. The stairwell was not empty either. Most students, hurrying up and down the stairs like crawling insects, faltered very slightly when they saw him, and then they looked down at the floor, or straight ahead, and kept going. Then there were the ones who hadn't been going anywhere, who simply sat on the steps and whispered to each other and stared with malignant eyes.

He got out of the stairwell as soon as possible. The second floor hallway was the Atrium all over again, only different. The hallway was smaller than the Atrium, and the students looked up from shoving bags in lockers and chatting in thick knots to watch him. This time, one or two of them gave small hand-waves, and smiles that seemed less contrived, but a few made faces of disgust as well. They didn't seem to be aware that they were doing it. All of them watched him.

He turned a corner, and the crowd thinned dramatically. He allowed himself a slight sigh of relief, feeling the eyes of only a few students at their lockers and a small knot of twelves down the hall.

He found his locker, opened it, and hung his shoulder-bag on one of the hooks inside. He put his binders on the small top shelf, except for one which he'd need for his first class. He stuck his timetable to his locker door with two magnets, along with a few Far Side cartoons and the album art from a CD he'd recently bought and liked.

When he closed his locker, he noticed a skinny, mousy-looking boy with thick-rimmed glasses at the locker beside him. "Hey," he said, with a small, awkward smile.

Quasimodo returned the smile. "Oh. Hey."

"You got the Les Misèrables locker," said the boy. "Two-four-six..."

"Oh-one," completed Quasimodo, feeling his smile widen. "Yeah."

It was a small, awkward conversation, but for some reason, it cheered him up immensely.

The next few hallways were relatively bearable. People continued to stare, but they seemed to lose interest quickly, and some didn't look up at all. By the time he'd found his first class, Visual Arts, room 114 in the Arts wing, he felt almost normal. It was a colourful, well-lit classroom, with posters of famous paintings and art techniques on the walls, and it reminded him a bit of his own room. He liked it immediately.

The teacher was a quiet woman, plump and serious and with an African name that almost all of the students couldn't pronounce, and it was a quiet class. They were working on charcoal pen sketches, and the others gave him a wide berth but were not unfriendly. People seemed impressed with his drawing, and at one point, a girl even motioned to several of her friends to have them look at it. "That's so good," said one of them, looking surprised.

There's no need to look so shocked, he thought. But instead of saying it, he smiled and said. "Thanks. Um. Yours is very good too." Which sounded kind of stupid in retrospect, but at least he'd said something.

History was on the third floor, and while he found himself dreading the stairwell, the hallways were quieter. It took him a while to find the room, but he managed to keep himself from actually panicking, and found it before the bell rang. It was a smaller room than the art room had been, and considerably less colourful, and it had no windows. Quasimodo took a seat on the far left, feeling the stares of those closest to him, and looked nervously from face to face. The moment they saw him look in their direction, each one seemed to drop his or her eyes down and pretend to be looking at their textbooks. But as his eyes passed over one girl two seats to his right, she smiled in his direction, and then she _winked_ at him.

It was the girl from the sidewalk a few days ago- Hugo's Bohemian Rhapsody. There was no mistaking her. She no longer wore the kerchief, and now had only a small pink ribbon through her masses of black hair, and she was wearing makeup now, but it was still clearly her.

He drew in a rapid breath, completely unsure of how to respond, and looked down at his notebook.

The class itself was only slightly more difficult than he'd expected. He kept quiet for most of it, even though he was fairly sure he knew the answers to the questions posed by the teacher. On two occasions, though, he did put his hand up, and the teacher, elderly, strict but apparently fair, seemed quite pleased with his answers.

The girl put her hand up once as well, giving a tentative answer that turned out to be right, and he learned that her name was Esmeralda. Unusual, he thought, but pretty. There were a lot of unusual names in this school.

About ten minutes before the end of the period, a voice crackled through overhead speakers, filling the room. Quasimodo had never heard a P.A. before, and it took him a moment to figure out what was happening. The voice wished the school a good morning even though it was nearly noon, and then rattled off a list of announcements, about clubs and bands that were starting, where to go if you wanted timetable changes, and about the welcome-back presentation from the Drama Guild in the cafeteria today at lunch.

After the announcement, the whole class seemed to lose whatever focus they'd built up, and started cleaning up their books, leaving their seats and chatting. Quasimodo assumed that the period was so close to being over that no-one felt like doing any more work. He was almost finished the questions they'd been assigned for homework, and the idea of just getting up and talking to these people he didn't know who couldn't help staring at him was frightening. He stayed where he was, head bent over his assignment.

Someone said "Hey," and he looked up. The girl, Esmeralda, smiled at him. "You concentrate pretty hard- I was waving from over there trying to get your attention."

She seated herself sideways in the desk beside him, so that he wasn't looking up at her. Her uniform was odd, he noticed- the girls' uniform had a pleated skirt and wool stockings instead of pants, and little black shoes, and she wasn't wearing the stockings. She had purple flip-flops instead of the shoes, too, and wore a lot of jewelry- gold bangles and bracelets, anklets, a funny little tasseled scarf around her waist. He immediately looked at her face, embarassed by the very idea of looking at a girl's legs. "Oh. Sorry," he said, with what he hoped came out as an apologetic smile, "I was- Er. Nevermind." He pushed the work aside and sat up straighter, trying to look ready to talk.

"Your name's Quasimodo, right?"

"Uh, yeah..." He chuckled slightly, feeling small and stupid and very, very ugly. "Much to my, uh, chagrin..."

Esmeralda quirked an eyebrow. She obviously didn't pluck her eyebrows; they were dark and thick and gave her otherwise delicate face a certain strength. "That's Latin, isn't it? Means..." She suddenly made a face, as if she'd just realized something. "Oh. That's kind of horrible."

"A little," he admitted. "But also kind of accurate." That had sounded like Victor- the History textbook had left his head full of measurement words.

She looked shocked, and he noticed a sad compassion in her expression. "Now that's just mean," she said, with mild, joking exhasperation.

She was an idealist. That was easy to tell. He would never have survived, with an attitude like that, but seeing it in someone else gave him a feeling of hope. "Well," he said, with a shrug, playing the pragmatist as Frollo so often did. "Look at me."

"I am looking at you," said Esmeralda.

Quasimodo hesitated. She was looking, but she wasn't staring. "It'd be so much easier if everyone was like you," he said.

Esmeralda smiled again, a sad smile, and looked as if she didn't know how to reply. During the silence, the end-of-class bell rang.

He remembered where they were, and started to gather up his binder and textbook, still watching her. She looked up at the clock. "Oh, bugger, I have to go. Drama thing." She got up, collecting her own notebooks. "See you!"

She hurried out of class, and he left at a slower pace, marvelling.

--

He'd been told to check in at Student Services at the beginning of lunch, and let them know how things were going. The teachers there all seemed pleased he'd survived, even the tiny nervous one who'd toured him around; he began to wonder if she was always like that. He told them he'd spoken to a few people, which was a bit of an exaggeration, and they offered to let him eat lunch in the student services room. The quiet was tempting, but he told them he'd be fine in the cafeteria.

He went back up to his locker to get his lunch, and then down to the caf. He'd known it would be crowded, but when he turned the handle of the caf door, he realized that 'crowded' wasn't a strong enough word. The room had been jam-packed with long lunch tables, and every table was lined with blue-and-white-clad bodies. There were gaps here and there, some of them wide, and in one or two sat the odd loner. He quickly realized that he was going to be stuck in one of these gaps- the people who sat together were large groups of friends, and he didn't exactly belong to any of those. He'd only communicated with one person for more than about twelve seconds, and she was nowhere to be seen. He stood about five feet from the door, awkward, unsure, wondering where to go.

At that moment, a flutter of movement caught his eye at the front of the room, and he noticed, as he hadn't before, that set into one wall was a wide box stage with red curtains- curtains that were now being reeled back.

He lost interest in where to sit; everyone was watching the stage now, and he could see fine from where he was. The curtains had been entirely pulled away, now, but no-one was on the stage.

Then a tall, skinny figure cartwheeled neatly out of the wings.

It must have been difficult to do a cartwheel while wearing a long purple cape and huge hat with a feather in it and a full school uniform, but this person had somehow managed it. He stood, and bowed to the crowd, and then straightened again with a dramatic flourish. He was Romany, with shoulder-length black hair and a little goatee and a single gold hoop earring, which seemed to be as sure a way of picking out the Gypsies as any. There were little golden bells on his shoes. His wide grin had a kind of devilish charm.

"Hellloooo Notre Dame!" he cried, his voice easily audible throughout the wide, crowded room. He had a mild French accent. Several girls giggled, and he winked at one of them from the stage before continuing. "Another year begins at the greatest- or the worst- high school in Canada!"

People cheered, and it wasn't clear whether they were agreeing or not.

He only had to gesture slightly to gain back their attention. "For those of you who do not know me- poor sods that you are- My name is Clopin Trouillefou. You may remember me from such Notre Dame theatrical productions as _Oklahoma! _-" He twirled an imaginary lassoo- "-_My Fair Lady_-" He bowed and tipped his hat, as a young cockney might have done to an english lady in the 1900's- "-or _Arsenic and Old Lace_." He mimed drinking from a wineglass, then clutched his throat and stuck out his toungue, letting his expression go vacant, like that of a dead man. Then he cleared his throat slightly and resumed. "Anyway, the drama department, in association with the dance department, would like to welcome you all back to the school. To start the year off right, we have a special act for you, which was put together on _obscenely_ short notice, featuring last year's _top_ dance student- her choreography in last year's musical won us a Cappies award- you know who I'm talking about, guys and ladies; it's- La Esmeralda!"

There was a flash of smoke and light, and Clopin swept his cloak around himself and pulled back into the wings. In his place emerged the black-haired girl who had conversed with Quasimodo less than half an hour previously. But as beautiful as she'd looked then, she now seemed completely transformed. She wore a long white dress, which contrasted sharply with her dark skin and jet-black hair, and silver and green bracelets jingled on her wrists. She smiled.

From somewhere near the stage, a violin sonata with a fast, aggressive pulse began. It had the 'Gypsy' sound- modulation, but mostly a minor key, with many strings of sixteenth notes and wild accellerandos. Esmeralda danced.

It was a traditional dance, and to say that it wasn't suggestive would have been an outright lie, but it was also expressive and beautiful. There were moments when it was difficult to believe those motions were being made by a human body- she looked like a twisting ribbon, or a white candle flame. And then she would give the audience a look at her face and it would be _her_, strong brows and red lips and big green eyes and not entirely human but pure Esmeralda.

She ended with a bow. The cafeteria exploded with cheers. Quasimodo clapped hard, wanting her to dance again.

To his disappointment, Clopin reentered the stage, this time without the cloak. "Well done Esme," he cried, above the last of the applause, "As always."

Esmeralda smiled, and ducked offstage, leaving the spotlight to Clopin. It was probably something of a thoughtful gesture on her part, because none of the guys would have willingly paid attention to Clopin while she was onstage.

"Another year," said Clopin, "And there have been a few changes around Notre Dame. A few new classes, some old teachers gone away, plenty of new faces-" His black eyes roved around the cafeteria, fixing on Quasimodo. "In fact," he said, jabbing the air with his finger for emphasis, "we've even got one face that's so new, you've never seen anything like him."

With a sudden sinking feeling, Quasimodo realized that Clopin was talking about him, that in a second every eye in the cafeteria would be fixed on him.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said Clopin," Our newest student, Quasimodo." He gestured, dramatic and sweeping, to the corner by the door where Quasimodo stood, watching with sudden panic.

It was as if it were in slow motion- every head turned, and they were all staring at him. For a split second there was silence, and then whispers ran through the room like ripples on the surface of a pond

And everything had been going so well... Damn Clopin, for drawing their attention to him. He wanted to run away, but his feet felt rooted in place. A slow, throbbing panic began to build in his chest. It's all right, he thought, they're just looking, of course they're going to look, soon they'll lose interest. But he wasn't fooling himself.

-

A few tables away, two boys glanced at each -other and grinned. One had several missing teeth; the other had a small scrap of barely-grown-in beard.

"God, he's ugly," said one.

"Five bucks says I can hit him from here," said the other, tossing a half-eaten plum idly in one hand.

"You can't," said the other, laughing.

-

And then something soft and wet but hard at the middle hit the side of his face.

Quasimodo stumbled for a moment, thrown off balance. His head reeled as he touched the point of impact and felt something cold and wet and sticky dripping from his face.

Later on, rationalizing the event, he would realize that many of the students in the caf had been trying to get the others to stop. But now it seemed as if everyone was laughing.

Quasimodo stood frozen in the cafeteria corner where the whole school could see him. The dripping remains of a piece of fruit clung to his hair, his face, his collar. Waves and seas of people were staring at him and laughing at him and he could feel his face burning beneath the sticky fruit pulp -and they were laughing -and he couldn't move -and this was like one of his nightmares. He couldn't control the panic, couldn't breathe. It was like having an animal inside his chest, panting and frightened. He raised his hands to cover his face. He could not have said whether this was to shield himself from anymore food being thrown, or to stop them looking at him. It was both.

And then, suddenly, the noise stopped.

Slowly, shaking and breathing hard, he looked up.

Esmeralda stood in front of him, looking out at the crowd of students, and there was fury on her face.

"You bunch of – of fucking _sheep_!" she spat. Her voice was low, but everyone could heard her. "What did he do? What's he done to deserve this? You're all too stupid and self-absorbed to stop and _think_, aren't you?You just do whatever the next guy's doing and you never stop to think!" She had a dangerous look on her face, and she strode over to a table where two boys, one with a scrappy beard and one with missing teeth, watched in shock. "You two," she said, seizing the fruit-thrower by his athletics department vest, "you pathetic, cruel excuses for-"

"You!" said a deep, hard bass full of authoritative steel. "Girl! Let go of him!" Frollo, who had been watching quietly from the back, on supervision duty, was on his feet only a short distance away from her, and he looked angry.

Esmeralda's nostrils flared. "You- what kind of a teacher are you? You were right there, watching, this whole time, and you never did anything?"

Frollo's expression changed from anger to pure loathing. When he spoke next, it was in a quiet voice, sharp and cold as a knifeblade. "Let go of him, and to the office. Now." He approached her, grabbing her arm just above the elbow. Quasimodo knew from experience that Frollo's grip was tight.

Esmeralda did not struggle, but her face was just as determined and full of anger as his. She let go of the boy's shirt and allowed Frollo to take her away. "You can't do anything to me- the whole school saw what happened."

Frollo didn't reply. As they passed Quasimodo, he gave the hunch-backed boy a look of pure disgust.

The doors slammed behind them. The silence was icy. Quasimodo felt fruit juice drip down his neck, and remembered where he was. He swallowed, feeling the burning humiliation of it all, and staggered towards the door. People pulled back as he passed them, and he heard murmers, shocked and pitying.

Please review, guys! A special magical invisible prize for anyone who can tell me where each of the chapter titles come from.

Thanks as always to Attaloi and my Ma.

-Mostly Harmless


	4. Hey, Señorita

Hi, and sorry for the wait! Back again! Thanks to Opal for reviewing. You're awesome, gallie.

For the partially illustrated version, search 'THSOND' on Deviantart.

The High School of Notre Dame  
Chapter Four  
Hey, Señorita

Esmeralda was frog-marched to the front offices, Frollo's vicelike grip cold on her upper arm. She didn't like the idea of him touching her. Once they were in his office, he released her arm and moved to his desk, opening a drawer to retrieve a pale pink form. Even from the wrong way, Esmeralda could see the word 'expulsion' in bold font at the head of the form.

"This is completely unjust," she said, "You can't just expel me."

"Actually," Frollo snarled, "I can."

"Mr. Frollo!" said a new voice, behind them, and Esmeralda twisted in her seat to look. It was the principal of the school, Mr. Saint-Paul. He was a fat, white-haired old man, amiable and pleasant, and Esmeralda often wondered why someone so decent employed someone like Frollo. "What seems to be the problem?" Mr. Saint-Paul asked, his voice stern.

"I am expelling this student," said Frollo, suddenly calm, "for an outburst of rudeness and gross defiance towards a teacher, violence, and foul language."

"I had to do something!" Esmeralda turned to the Principal, her one lifeline. "Mr. Saint-Paul, you know that new boy who's deformed? They were throwing things at him and mocking him and _he-_" She pointed at Frollo. "He just stood there and let them do it!"

Mr. Saint-Paul looked shocked. "But he's your son!"

Esmeralda reeled. That… that didn't make any sense! "He's your _son_?" she demanded.

"He is _not_ my son," hissed Frollo, "I am his caretaker. Not his father!"

"Mr. Frollo," said the Principal, looking at Frollo with a very real dislike, "Esmeralda has never caused any trouble before this. I will not allow you to expel her. And I believe," he added, pointedly, "that the more extreme punishment should be reserved for those who initiated all of this." He looked at Frollo, his normally kind eyes cold. "See to it," he said, and then he left, leaving the door open behind him.

Frollo waited until Mr. Saint-Paul was back in his own office. Then he closed the door, and rounded on Esmeralda, grabbing her arm. His face was a mask of cold rage. She started to cry out, but he clamped a hand over her open mouth, his palm pressing against her lips and teeth.

"Now," he said, "You listen to me. You might think you're some kind of heroine. But I know what you are. You're an impudent gypsy slut and you're going to pay for it."

Esmeralda had never hated anyone in her life the way she hated Frollo right now. On impulse, she pulled her lips back and bit the palm of his hand. It didn't give her teeth much purchase, and he pulled his hand away before she could draw blood.

He looked at his palm for a moment, shocked, before wiping it carefully on her hair. "You ought to put that beautiful mouth of yours to better use," he said.

"You perverted creep," said Esmeralda.

"Very clever of you," said Frollo, "You really can pull an innuendo out of anything. I may not have the power to expel you over this, you little trollop, but believe me, if you put one toe out of line I will have you out of this school within minutes. And more than that- I have quite a lot of influence with the police." He tugged on her arm, which he still had not let go of, and spoke into her ear, in a low, whispering hiss. "Breathe one word against me, to anyone, and you'll find yourself prosecuted for drug trafficking. Don't think I can't do that."

Esmeralda felt a chill run through her, and knew that he was telling the truth.

He let her go, roughly, and went to his desk, putting away the expulsion form. From the same drawer, he retrieved another form, this one blue. "I am suspending you for four days. Count yourself lucky. What is your full name?"

Esmeralda stared at the floor and did not respond.

"Your name," said Frollo, "_now_."

He must really be mad, thought Esmeralda. "Esmeralda Rigó," said Esmeralda, dully, "Accent over the O." She was shaking slightly, and was not sure whether it was from anger or fear.

Frollo penned something into the form. "What grade are you in?"

"Eleven," she replied. Blackmail, that was what this was. Blackmail of the worst kind. He was an evil man.

Frollo filled in a few more spaces on the form, and then handed it to her. "You have half an hour to gather your belongings and get off the premises. If I catch you within the school after that, there will be serious trouble."

Esmeralda stared at the form with unseeing eyes. "What about my classes?"

"You'll have to catch up when you return on Monday," he said, disinterested. "Now get out. I have work to do."

Esmeralda left, feeling cold and shaky. When she was outside the office, she tore up the form into a garbage can, without reading it. Then, resigned, she went to her locker in the arts wing, and gathered up the things she would need to take home.

She swung her backpack over one shoulder and closed the locker door. As she did so, a door opened down the hall, and Quasimodo emerged from the boy's bathroom, looking hesitantly around him. His orange hair was damp, as was his shirt collar, but all traces of thrown fruit were gone. He spotted Esmeralda, looking surprised but pleased, and covered the distance between them in a matter of seconds. His pronounced limp did not seem to slow him down much. "Esmeralda," he breathed, eyes down, wringing his massive hands. "I-"

She didn't want thanks, and interrupted him. "Quasi- Are you alright?"

He looked up at her, slightly surprised. "Er- Majorly embarrassed, I guess, but otherwise fine."

Esmeralda smiled, but she could tell he wasn't being entirely truthful. There was a red mark on his cheek, and a slight strained look in his eyes that hinted at something much worse. "I'm so sorry. Clopin's a friend- I never would have dreamed he'd be stupid enough to put you in that position. And as for those two idiot jocks who _started_ the whole thing…"

Quasimodo held up a hand. "It's- it's alright. Things like this happen." There was something she found heartbreaking in how easily he said it. "Besides, _you_-" He stopped, seeming to remember something, and drew in a tense breath. "What happened? In the office? Frollo didn't-" He seemed to have noticed her backpack, and his face twisted with concern. Esmeralda knew that some people were frightened by his looks; right now, finding him scary seemed completely ridiculous. "Oh, _no_," he said, "you actually got into trouble for helping me, didn't you?"

Esmeralda made a face. "I've been suspended." The words felt sour in her mouth. She wondered if she could tell him about the threats, but Frollo's cold whisper crept back into her mind and she decided against going into detail. "Frollo blew a gasket."

Quasimodo winced. "He does that, doesn't he." Then his face brightened. "What about the Principal? They hate eachother- He could probably help you."

"He already _did_ help me," said Esmeralda, "I would have been expelled if he wasn't there."

"Oh," said Quasimodo, looking shocked. "That's completely unfair."

"Life's not."

"Don't I know it." He smiled briefly. "For how long? The suspension, I mean."

Esmeralda sighed. "Until the end of the week. What I'm really worried about is my classes… I didn't do so great last year and everything's just harder this year. Math's the worst. I can barely get through it without having to catch up four missed days." She wondered if he would understand that; the stress and shame of almost failing- He'd struck her as bright in history, and she knew he was doing a grade eleven course even though he was only a grade ten.

He put a hand to his chin, thinking. There was something almost cute, she noticed, in his facial expressions; the thick, furrowed red eyebrows and the wide, uneven blue-green eyes. It would have been easy to miss, under all the ugliness, but it was there. "I might be able to help you with that," he said.

She would have understood had they been talking about History, but he wasn't in her Math class. "How?" she asked.

He spoke in a low voice, smiling impishly and looking like a benign demon. "Frollo's home computer is connected to the school board system. That system has every teacher's coursework plans for the term. They should say what unit you're working on and what homework's been assigned."

"Wouldn't you need to know Frollo's password?" asked Esmeralda.

"I've known it for years," he said, slyly, "it's 'Jehan'."

She was surprised. True, she'd only just met him, but mischief and rebellion did not seem Quasimodo's style. "What if Frollo caught you? He'd kill you."

Quasimodo shrugged. "You took a bullet for me. Besides, he's almost never home."

Esmeralda hated the idea of forcing him to do something like that. But it would make things so much easier… Hating herself for it, she smiled. "Thank you."

Quasimodo returned the smile, blushing slightly. "Um… you probably don't need it and all, but if you want any help with the actual work I'd be happy to…"

"I'll need heaps of help," said Esmeralda. "I get all confused and none of it makes any sense. I'd really appreciate your help."

He looked as if he'd never been so happy. "Any other subjects you want your coursework for?"

She paused to think, and then shrugged. "History maybe, but you can just tell me what happened in class. French, I'm actually alright at… and vocal's hardly even a class. Just math, really."

He looked interested. "You're taking vocal?"

"Yeah," said Esmeralda, a touch sadly, "it's my favourite class and I got suspended just in time to miss it."

Now he was positively excited. "I'm in that class!"

Esmeralda remembered, with surprise, that he was. Mr. Cummings had told them all yesterday, but he'd done so very briefly, and in her mind, it had blended with the longer, more awkward explanation given by her history teacher the other day. "I forgot about that- I mean, I thought it was just the History class!" Now she was even sorrier to have to miss it, mostly for his sake. She knew he'd be shy after what had happened in the caf. "You'll like Mr. Cummings. He's like a British cyclone."

Quasimodo looked momentarily puzzled, and then shrugged. "We'll miss you," he said, "I'll tell you what we did-"

Esmeralda waved a hand. "Oh, it's not that kind of class; all we do is…" she paused, an idea creeping into her head. The arts teachers didn't like Frollo, and almost all of them seemed to love Esmeralda. They were good people. "Y'know," she said, "I think I'll come to the class anyway. They probably wouldn't mind me staying in the arts wing, and I don't think I've ever seen Frollo down there."

"That's true," said Quasimodo, "He's not very artistic. Good idea."

They ended up walking together to Quasimodo's locker, so that he could get his books. People seemed to almost make a point of _not_ looking at him, and she knew it was because of what had happened at lunch. News travels fast in a high school. Some of them probably felt sorry and embarrassed for him, but mostly, she could tell, people were frightened of what she might do to them. It gave Esmeralda a certain feeling of power, but she wondered when people would stop being inclined to stare and get used to him. She, to her own surprise, found she already had- his warped, disorderly features seemed less alien to her, and she had no trouble discerning his facial expressions. The only thing she found herself staring at, as they walked down the halls, was the thick forearm that held his books- more than twice the width of her own, steely muscle tone visible beneath his skin, it looked immensely strong. He wasn't a cripple, she realized. If anything, he was an athlete.

"I had no idea Frollo was your father," she said, as he held open the stairwell door for her. "Thank you."

Quasimodo trotted down the steps after her, his loping gait causing him no discernable difficulty. "I sort of assumed everyone would know that."

"I didn't 'till the principal mentioned it," said Esmeralda, frowning. "It's strange. He's- " She paused, wondering how frank she should be. "I have to say, I hate him. He can't have been the greatest dad. But you seem really nice."

"You know," said Quasimodo, wincing very slightly, "It may not be all his fault." He looked up at her, shrugging his shoulders. "He's not really my father."

"Yeah, he said that..." Now she hated him even more. "Seemed like he wouldn't want anyone to think you were related to him."

He smiled, wryly. "Yes, that sounds like him. I think he's still angry about the whole thing."

"What thing?" asked Esmeralda. Much as she didn't want anything to do with Frollo, she was curious.

"Getting stuck with me," said Quasimodo, "See, his wife, my mother, had an affair." He winced again, looking uncomfortable and fumbling with the edge of his binder as they walked. "Then she died in, you know, childbirth, and he sort of had to take care of me."

"That's terrible," said Esmeralda. "For you, I mean."

He shrugged again. "Could have been a lot worse. He hired a nanny-slash-cleaning-lady who still lives with us and is for all intents and purposes my grandmother, so I barely have to even see him." He smiled, clearly trying to tell her she didn't have to feel sorry for him. "You can understand him being a little, uh, annoyed, though," he added, with a chuckle. "Bad enough looking after a kid you didn't want without having that kid be someone else's deformed bastard."

She wasn't particularly swayed by that. Sure, in Frollo's position, she would have been upset about it, but blaming the child was completely wrong. Especially after fifteen _years_. No, Frollo was still an evil man, though she was reassured to know that Quasimodo's life wasn't pure suffering.

They were a few minutes early for music class, so she told him to go in and meet the teacher while she went back to her own locker and put her bag away. He seemed to want to wait for her, but went in anyway, and she opened her combination lock and stuffed her full backpack into the narrow coffin of storage space, grunting with effort and venting anger. It felt good to take out the fury she'd had to swallow earlier on a polyester backpack that didn't try to threaten her.

Someone tapped her on the shoulder. Esmeralda turned, alarmed, half-expecting the lined and grinning mask of Claude Frollo. But it was the boy from the street the other day, the one who had gotten rid of their two harassers in an effort to show off. Those two guys he'd disposed of, Esmeralda remembered, with a spark of new fury, had been the ones who'd thrown the fruit in the cafeteria.

"Hi there," said the blond boy, looking perfectly calm. It seemed like a sick contrast to her own anger. "Esmenarda, right?"

"_Esmeralda_," she corrected, an angry set to her jaw.  
He smiled, and she knew he was trying to be charming. "Forgive me. Really, I'm terrible with names. I'm Phoebus, by the way."  
She rolled her eyes, and started to turn away. She'd never seen herself as a stunner, but this seemed to happen a lot- guys trying to impress her. She disliked this blockhead already.

"You were suspended earlier, right?"

Esmeralda turned back, expression cold. He might have been _beau comme un dieu_, but he had a cockiness about him that irritated her. He had two extracurricular pins stuck to his vest, one of them for general athletics and one indicating that he was the captain of the football team. She tried to direct her anger at it, crossing her arms and scowling. "Yes, as it happens, I was. Does that interest you?" she asked, coolly. "Maybe you want to go report me to Frollo."

He tilted his head, smiling an infuriating smug smile. "Now why would I do that?"

"I don't know," parried Esmeralda, her attention still on the little football pin. "You might be angry at me, for threatening your football buddies." The two, the fruit-throwers, had both worn football pins proclaiming them members of the team.

Phoebus looked actually taken aback at this. "Them? No, no- they were way out of line."

He might have been sincere; she couldn't tell, but it only made her angrier. She reared up, wishing she were taller than him. "Yes, and _you're_ the captain of the team. If somebody on your team is out of line, you're supposed to do something about it!" she snapped.

Phoebus clearly hadn't been expecting her to be quite so angry. "...Like what?" he asked, brow furrowing.

"I don't know," sputtered Esmeralda, "kick them off! Get them banned from the team; do _something_!"

"They're some of our best players," he said, looking confused, "I can't just- I mean- Look, I'm really sorry about what happened to your friend but I'm not a teacher!"  
"No," said Esmeralda, cold again, "but you are in charge of who gets onto the team and who doesn't, right?"

"Basically," said Phoebus, "but Mr. Kurtz has some say and-"

"Well then," she interrupted, "I'm sure you can get them _off_ the team. Frollo's pretty much made sure the teachers aren't going to punish them, but maybe there's still some justice left in the world."

Phoebus blinked, speechless.

Esmeralda decided she'd had enough of him, and turned on her heel.

--

Mr. Cummings was much as Esmeralda had described him. He was a very tall, skinny Englishman, and he taught and conducted as if he were halfway through a sugar rush. He told jokes, some corny and some genuinely funny, and seemed to like everyone.

The rest of the class all seemed to have heard about the little incident at lunch, although he had a vague idea that most of the students present were sort of on his side. There was a distinct awkwardness in the classroom at first, which Mr. Cummings valiantly tried to ignore, but once Esmeralda came in, missing her binder and muttering furiously under her breath about football-players, it seemed to clear like a fog. She cheered up as soon as she realized where she was, and to his own surprise, by the time the attendance was through the whole class seemed comfortable. People were still looking at him, but they would always do that, and now it was more curious than cruel. Esmeralda had tipped the scales. He could tell by the atmosphere of the colourful, disorderly music room; that everyone here wanted what had happened to him at lunch to never happen again.

He enjoyed the class hugely. The first thing they did was listen to a recording and try to identify aspects of the music, which was both easy and entertaining. Then they sorted themselves into groups by voice range and stood in choir formation. He knew he was a tenor, and he ended up standing at the front end of the tenor section, next to Esmeralda, who was an alto. They were given sheet music, and taught an arrangement of "Bridge Over Troubled Water" that was really quite fun. The piece was still rough by the time the class ended, but it was improving fast, even though Quasimodo was surprised by how many of the other guys were off-key. At the end of the class, as he dismissed them, Mr. Cummings told them they'd be auditioning the solos in a few days. Then he looked at Quasimodo, and it was clear that he wanted him to audition.

His final class was Religion, and he was grateful he'd been attending church all his life. While in other high schools, he'd heard that religion was one of those easy, touchy-feely your-opinion-is-right-too kind of courses, at Notre Dame it was not. Frollo was responsible for most of it. He'd taken the preexisting religion syllabus and added to it a whole lot of theology, biblical history and scripture knowledge. It ended up being considerably harder, and Quasimodo didn't enjoy it nearly as much as vocal class. For one thing, people were staring again, although he was beginning to be able to cope with that.

After class ended, he looked in on Esmeralda again. She was in the drama room, helping clean up after the grade nine class.

"Hey," he said, hoping she wasn't getting sick of talking to him, "I never got to ask you. What were you so mad about when you came into music class?"

Esmeralda brushed a strand of loose hair behind her ear, looking preoccupied and beautiful. "Oh. There's this football jock who was being an ass about something."

Quasimodo felt unexpectedly angry. People shouldn't be allowed to bother Esmeralda, he thought. "Who's that?"

"Oh, nobody. Some cheesehead called Phoebus. I don't know whether he's trying to impress me or get me expelled."

Either way, Quasimodo decided, this guy had better not bother her again.

* * *

Nobody's claimed the scepial magical invisible prise yet. Sad. Please R&R.

Thanks as always to Attaloi and my Ma.

-Mostly Harmless


	5. If You'll Be My Bodyguard

Hi, and sorry fagain for wait times! Special thanks to all my loverly reviewers.

For the partially illustrated version, search 'THSOND' on Deviantart.

The High School of Notre Dame  
Chapter Five  
If You'll Be My Bodyguard

Esmeralda spent the next few days ensconced comfortably in the arts department, and Quasimodo did his best to help her whenever possible. She joined him for Visual Arts every morning, visiting around the room but spending most of her time with him. He'd made a few friends in the class, which he knew was mostly due to her. When people saw her talking to him, then they would talk to him, and perhaps it was that they realized he wasn't a freak in every respect, but a few people seemed to think he was alright.

He made a few acquaintances- people he wasn't sure whether or not to call friends just yet. There was Adam, who had very little talent at art but knew an awful lot about most everything; Jessica, who was a fanatical fan of _Wicked!_ and seemed to on some level equate Quasimodo with its heroine; Janie, who seemed to lack the common notion that mentioning his deformity would be a faux-pas and whose honesty he found surprisingly refreshing; and a few-odd others whose names he wasn't totally sure about but who talked to him relatively often.

And of course there was Esmeralda. He knew she counted as a full-out friend. He spent his lunch hours with her in the music room, his explanations of math problems interspersed with sociable chatter. She did have trouble with math, but he didn't find being patient with her difficult.

With considerable encouragement from Esmeralda, he decided he would audition for the vocal class tenor solo. Auditioning turned out to mean singing the solo in front of the class, and then having them vote on whose audition they liked best.

Only two other tenors wanted the part, and they lined up to take the floor. Quasimodo went last, feeling short and very out of place and anticipating his turn with a kind of terrified disbelief.

On Mr. Cummings' signal, the first boy began his audition. He was on-key, but the higher notes caused him trouble and he winced visibly, his voice cracking at the highest point. Quasimodo felt slightly better, knowing he was capable of hitting the G that had caused the first tenor trouble. But perhaps it had been nerves, and his throat, too, would close up...

The second tenor had a better voice, but he did strange things with the enunciation and the mood of the piece, until it sounded more like r&b than Paul Simon. Quasimodo didn't like it, but maybe everyone else would.

His turn. He took a step forward, and breathed in.

To his surprise, the solo seemed to start of its own accord, as if his brain had shut down and simply let his voice do the work. But he forced himself to think about what he was singing, to have dynamic range and to hold the notes that needed to be held and to enunciate carefully, and there seemed to be no room in his head for stage fright. He was doing well, even if he should probably have cut off that first phrase a little more clearly. Now all he had to do was finish without screwing up.

He realized with slight shock that it was over. He'd been about to start the chorus without realizing it, and he stopped himself. That had gone... really, quite well. Esmeralda was grinning at him. He went back to his seat, slightly red with nerves and out of breath, but pleased with himself. Esmeralda punched him in the shoulder. "Damn," she whispered, "You sound like Paul Simon. Why didn't you tell me you sounded like Paul Simon?"

Quasimodo shrugged, bemused and smiling. "I didn't know."

They auditioned the rest of the solos, which were all for the altos and sopranos. Esmeralda tried out for as many as possible, bold and confident and with a wonderful, slightly rough sweetness to her voice. He enjoyed it almost as much as watching her dance.

They did a ballot-style vote, and he voted for the first of the tenors rather than himself because voting for oneself seemed like cheating, but for all the rest of the solos he voted for Esmeralda. He felt slightly scandalized when she only got the second-longest solo, but he knew he was probably biased, and she seemed to be perfectly happy with it.

He was stunned, and both flattered and frightened, when he got the tenor solo. Esmeralda didn't look surprised.

The class went too fast after that, and Religion went too slow. When it was finally finished, he went back to find her in the empty music room, and she forced him to sing Paul Simon songs with her. It ended up being incredibly fun, although he had to leave every few minutes to look out the nearest window and check if Laverne was there to pick him up yet.

It was as he began one of these brief trips that he heard footsteps approaching the music room, at a fast, determined pace, and, curious and perhaps a little worried, he stopped to listen. Then, he heard a murmur of conversation, the first voice high, the second voice deep and austere and unmistakable.

He drew a sharp breath, turned on his heel and scrambled back to the music room, his eyes wide. "Esmeralda!" he hissed, the moment he was inside, "Frollo's coming!"

Esmeralda leapt to her feet, looking around the music room. There were no exits besides the door to the hallway, and Frollo would be there already. "Crap, I'm not supposed to be here!"

Quasimodo craned his neck, searching for someplace where Frollo wouldn't see her. If she was hidden and he found her, she'd be in even worse trouble. The chairs and the percussion sets would be no good, since they didn't provide enough cover. There wouldn't be room in the instrument cabinets; they went almost to the ceiling and all of them were packed with cases.

Then he noticed it- above the cabinets, there was an easy two feet of space before the ceiling. Some of it held rows of African drums or storage boxes, but there was clear space above the wall of woodwind cabinets, deep enough and high enough that they wouldn't be spotted from the ground unless Frollo knew where to look. "Up there!"

"How are we supposed to get up there?" hissed Esmeralda, looking incredulous and angry and scared.

Quasimodo took a deep breath, noting the handholds and footholds. He could have gotten up there on his own, but he had a lot of experience and a lot of upper-body strength, and it might have been beyond her even if they'd had enough time. "Please don't interpret this the wrong way," he said, grabbing her by her waist with one arm and pulling her into his shoulder. In a moment he was supporting her weight entirely. She was surprisingly heavy.

He grabbed one of the chairs that littered the room, dragging it closer to the cabinet. Then he leapt onto the chair, and, feeling Esmeralda squirm, grabbed the top ledge of the cabinet with one hand and pulled himself up into the space between the cabinet and the ceiling. He made sure Esmeralda was safely on the ledge before pulling himself entirely up, then scrambled away from the edge, towards the wall. Esmeralda, after a moment of stunned silence, did the same. They crouched perfectly still in the gab between the cabinet top and the ceiling, hardy breathing, listening.

Perhaps five seconds passed, though it felt like an eternity. Then the door of the music room opened, the mechanical sound of the turning handle seeming unnaturally loud in the stillness. From their high vantage point, they could see the top of Claude Frollo's grey, slightly balding head.

Esmeralda and Quasimodo exchanged a brief, terrified glance, neither one of them breathing.

For a long time, there was only the sound of footsteps on the carpeted floor. Then the light went out- Frollo had flipped the switch- and he opened the door and left.

Quasimodo let out a deep breath, but neither of them spoke until it seemed clear that he had gone. There was enough light from the window and from the strip of glass in the door that they could see relatively well. At last, Esmeralda turned to him, looking shocked. "Wow. Thanks. That was scary."  
"Sorry about that," said Quasimodo, out of breath, "Wasn't time to explain. Er." He suddenly realized, feeling heat blossom in his face, how close she'd been to him.

"I- don't mind- " Esmeralda replied, "-It worked, anyway. Um. Could you help me, uh, get down?" She peered over the edge of the cabinet, looking uneasy.

"Oh," said Quasimodo, relieved that she'd changed the subject. "Sure. One second." He glanced at the floor, lowered himself over the edge, and dropped neatly onto the chair, landing in a slight crouch. "Okay, if you..." No, she couldn't climb down and let him catch her, she was wearing a skirt! He shut his eyes, embarrassed at having almost suggested it, then took a deep breath, opened them again and tried to think. "Um. Nevermind." He hopped off the chair, taking a few steps back so that he wouldn't be looking directly up at her. Y- You're taller than me, you could probably just, uh, d-drop down, it's not too far..." He was stammering, and he only did that when he was either scared or very embarrassed. He prayed she wouldn't notice.

Esmeralda peered over the edge at the chair. "To be completely honest, I'm a little scared."

"I'm right here if you fall," said Quasimodo, wishing he could have done something helpful.

She frowned, and nodded, swinging her legs over the edge of the cabinet. Quasimodo tried to keep his eyes on her face, wishing he could have had dark Romany skin so that the fact that the redness in his face wouldn't be so obvious. Esmeralda didn't seem to notice it, however; she squeezed her eyes shut, and hopped down, landing in an awkward crouch on the chair. "Ooh. That was kind of scary."

"Well done," said Quasimodo, the way he might have if she'd figured out a particularly difficult math problem.

"Do you do this kind of thing a lot?"

"Um. Occasionally." He wondered what qualified as 'this kind of thing'. "I ring the bells at the church- that's kind of similar."

Esmeralda smiled, looking surprised. "Really?"

He returned the smile, filled with rare pride. "Uh-huh, every Sunday. Notre Dame Basilica."

She blinked in disbelief. "Notre _Dame_? By yourself?"

"Yes."

"But- there's like a zillion of them!"

Quasimodo grinned. "Twenty-one, actually. It took a bit of figuring out how to do it alone. Most big places have switched to carillon by now- Electric- but the Bishop thinks it's better the old-fashioned way."

"That's crazy," said Esmeralda, simply. "No wonder you're so freaking ripped."

Quasimodo had no idea what that meant. "Um, you should probably go- just in case Frollo comes back. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

"Yeah, good point... Okay." And, to his astonishment, she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. It took him a moment to realize what had happened.

"Thanks," said Esmeralda. "I'm not so keen on your step-dad, but you're pretty awesome."

Quasimodo looked up at her, willing the burning heat in his face to go away. His tongue felt like it was too big for his mouth. "Um. A- anytime. I-I mean thank you. Glad I could, er, help…" He decided to stop talking immediately, before he made himself look even more like a babbling lunatic.  
Esmeralda punched him playfully in the shoulder for the third time that day. "See you tomorrow."

He ran to open the door for her, and went with her for the short distance to her locker. Neither of them said much; Quasimodo was keeping a watchful eye out for Frollo, just in case.

When he had seen Esmeralda safely out the nearest exit, he stood for a long moment, watching her go. His cheek still felt strange and warm where she'd kissed it.  
"Excuse me," said someone, from behind him.

He turned around, apprehensive, half-expecting to be plastered with fruit when he did. Instead he found himself staring up at a blond boy, probably a Grade Twelve, who was at least a head taller than him. He was strong-featured and good-looking, with a neat little goatee beard and amused brown eyes, and he had the wide shoulders of an athlete.  
"Hi," said the newcomer, with a cheerful grin. He seemed to be relatively unaffected by Quasimodo's presence. His gaze did not linger over the humped back, the distorted nose or the mound over one brow; he looked Quasimodo in the eye. It was slightly unnerving. "Have you seen Esmeralda? About this high, Romany, dark hair, amazing legs?"

You disrespectful git, thought Quasimodo. And he immediately knew who he was speaking to. "You're Phoebus, aren't you," he said, without a shadow of doubt.

"That's me," said Phoebus, his grin never slipping, "Phoebus Chataupers, at your service. So, seen her? I'd like to talk to her."

Quasimodo would have been willing to hate him simply because Esmeralda did, but he found himself disliking Phoebus on his own behalf. Had Phoebus told Frollo she was here? It seemed like too much of a coincidence to have been pure chance- Frollo coming to the music room, clearly looking for something, and then Phoebus showing up not ten minutes later?

He looked at Phoebus, with a hard, set scowl. "Listen, Phoebus," he said, in a low voice that hinted at danger, "You probably already know who I am. I'm the guy who's going to kick your ass if you don't leave her alone. She's not hurting anyone by being here."

Phoebus looked mildly surprised. Quasimodo himself was shocked at his own boldness. He had never been that kind of person; he'd never gotten seriously mad and he'd certainly never threatened anyone before… But he knew he was helping Esmeralda, and it felt _good_.

Phoebus quirked an eyebrow. "Huh. Think you could do that?"

"Try me," said Quasimodo, feeling his hands ball themselves into fists.  
"I hope you're kidding," said Phoebus. The infuriating smile was still in place.  
Quasimodo seized a handful of his shirt collar, lifting him about a foot off the ground. Phoebus was heavy, but lighter than the pull of the bigger bells, and Quasimodo felt a sudden pride at his own strength.

Phoebus, to his credit, did not lose his cool, though he did lose the grin and looked very much impressed. "Whoa. You weren't kidding." He smiled again, this time less smarmy and more open. "I've made quite an ass of myself, haven't I?"

Quasimodo grinned, knowing he'd won. "You could say that."

"Okay, said Phoebus, "defeat acknowledged. Would you… please… put me down?"

Quasimodo hadn't entirely realized he'd still been holding the blond boy in the air, and he lowered him down, slightly mollified. He hadn't meant to keep doing that- it was like gloating. He gingerly let go of his collar. "Just- leave her be. She's just trying to stay caught up; she's not hurting anybody."

Phoebus straightened his collar. "You thought I was- Oh! Well, I can see you being mad." He chuckled slightly. "It's not about that; that's none of my business anyway. I just wanted to-" He paused, frowning thoughtfully. "Hey, do you suppose you could tell her something for me? You're her friend, right?"

"I guess so," said Quasimodo, warily, unsure of which question he was answering.

Phoebus's face softened, and Quasimodo had to admit that he didn't look as if he had any malicious aim. "I wanted her to know- she was right about those two guys. They're off the team now. And when I talked to her before, I wasn't trying to threaten her. I wanted to tell her I thought she was very brave."

Quasimodo thought he knew which two guys Phoebus was referring to. Merely thinking of the incident embarrassed him. "I'll tell her," he said shortly.

"Thank you," said Phoebus, flashing another irritatingly charming smile. He was almost disgustingly handsome. "Say, we're short two men. I don't suppose I could talk you into joining the football team?"

"Do you want to be short three, Phoebus?"

Phoebus laughed. "Making an ass of myself again, eh?"

"Yep."

* * *

The non-existant prise is still up for grabs: Who wrote the song lyrics from which I get the chapter titles?

Thanks as always to Attaloi and my Ma.

-Mostly Harmless


	6. A Window in Your Heart

Hi! I'm really sorry about the long wait (Two WEEKS! Aughgh!). Suffice to say that my computer died. To make up for it this chappie is pretty long.

For the partially illustrated version, search 'THSOND' on Deviantart.

The High School of Notre Dame  
Chapter Six  
A Window In Your Heart

Esmeralda did not come in the next day. It was a Friday, the final day of her suspension, and to Quasimodo, the school seemed hollow without her. He ended up eating lunch in the cafeteria with a handful of people from his art class, and he tried to be pleasant and enjoy it, but being in the cafeteria made him antsy and he found himself missing her. He wondered how he'd gotten by without her for fifteen years.

That afternoon, however, she sent him an email.

_Hi Quasi! :D_

_Sorry I wasn't in today, but I figured if Frollo came in there today he could come tomorrow and I'd be in deep shit. so, yeah, I decided to stay home since it's the last day of the suspension anyway. i'll be in on monday, ok? And do you think you could pretty please mail me my homework? I owe you a huge favour or something. _

_Oh, BTW, if you ever wanna join the Miracle Workers, here's what you'll need:_

**_"Begin at the north of a starry night. Turn towards Hell-child's doom at the first opportunity. Where the numbers turn Prestissimo, hail Cesar, but go round the back to the door as blue as Elphaba."_**

_Ok, I gotta go. I told my parents I missed the bus so they're making me do housework, which just sucks. Seeya monday! XD -Esme_

Quasimodo was perplexed by the email, particularly by the bolded set of instructions, but he replied,

_Hello, Esmeralda,_

__

I understand, don't worry. I've been living with him for more than fifteen years and he still scares me. We missed you, though. No favours accepted on the homework score, since I still owe you my soul- Basically, we took a note and did an assignment in history, and your math class is starting chapter two in the textbook. If you need some help, come over anytime, so long as there isn't a black car in the driveway, if you catch my drift.

Oh, and that guy you mentioned a few days ago, Phoebus, asked me to tell you something- he says you were right about those two guys and he's kicked them off the football team, and also he wasn't trying to threaten you when he talked to you before.

...If the two guys bit means what I think it does, then I owe you my soul in triplicate.

Who are the Miracle Workers? And why are they so... Poetic... and... Mysterious? I should probably know this already but you must remember that I've spent most of my life in a box.  
My sympathies about the housework. I'll see you.

-Quasi (I like that nickname.)

He checked it over three times, frowning over some of the phrasing, then attached a scanned copy of the History note and assignment, and sent it to her. Not long after, he received a reply from her.

_Hi again!_

__

Thankyou so freaking much. You have no idea how much i needed that. You can have your soul back :P Thanks for giving me the message from Phoebus, and yeah, it kinda was about that, but if he tries to talk to me again I'm gonna tell him to sod off and stop trying to impress me. Freakin' pretty-boy.

The Miracle Workers is this Gypsy club Clopin started up. Trust me, he's less of a dumbass normally than when you saw him. Basically, we just hang out watching movies and complaining about authority and stuff like that. Generally, lots of pizza is involved. It's really fun. The poem is kind of a joke-test-thing that Clopin set up. You'll need it if you ever feel like joining, and I'm sort of not supposed to tell you any more about it. XP anyway, byebye.

Quasimodo knew Frollo would disown him completely if he ever found out he was in such a club, and wondered why they would invite the white son of a bigot into a Gypsy group anyway. He decided he'd worry about the Miracle Workers some other time.

As he read her reply, Victor, whom he had not heard entering the room, appeared above his shoulder. "What's this?" he asked. "Emails from someone called Esmeralda; now that's an exotic name. Tell me, who is she?"

Quasimodo groaned, and in an instant Hugo, who seemed to go everywhere Victor went (why two such obvious opposites voluntarily spent time together, no-one knew) was beside them, leaning over the back of an old leather sofa so that he could peer over Quasimodo's shoulder at the screen. "Getting pretty intimate, eh? 'You have no idea how much I needed that? Hm, sounds kinky."

Quasimodo knew Hugo was intentionally misinterpreting things, but he had to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of the thought. "No. God, no, Hugo, she's just a friend at school."

"Well," said Victor, grinning, "She's a girl… and a friend, right?"

"Yes," said Quasimodo. And then, "No. Shut up."

Hugo draped an arm across Quasimodo's shoulder, smiling like a friendly drunk. "He's too modest, Vic, we can't trust him. So, this girl of yours. Pretty?"

Quasimodo tossed Hugo's arm to the side, rolling his eyes and grinning. "That would hardly be my main concern if she _were_ 'my girl'."

"You haven't answered the question," said Hugo, "I bet she's a babe."

"You think anything with legs is a babe," said Quasimodo. "She's _very _pretty, as it happens. She looks like an angel." It was odd to think that she was the one Hugo had rather rudely admired as they drove home from church less than a week ago, although Hugo admired so many girls that he would probably not have remembered it.

Hugo looked impressed. "Way to go."

"She's _not _my girl," said Quasimodo, tersely, turning slightly red.

"Not yet, maybe," said Victor.

The conversation had stopped being funny. "Let's examine the facts, guys," said Quasimodo, his tone slightly bitter. "_She_is brave, sweet, talented, and one of the most beautiful girls in Notre Dame. If not in Quebec. If not in Canada. _I _am-" Words failed him, and he gestured at himself, from his hunched back, to the mound over his eye, to his distorted tombstone nose, crooked mouth and skewed chin, and he laughed grimly. "I doubt I'm her _type_."

Victor and Hugo exchanged glances. Quasimodo only saw it out of the corner of one eye, and he suspected he hadn't been supposed to. There was concern evident in their faces, and he was not sure whether he was grateful or annoyed. "I wouldn't pass judgement just yet," said Hugo, with unusual sobriety, "You're a pretty great guy. Just wait 'till she gets to know you."

Quasimodo realized that their attempts to cheer him up were really quite sweet. They'd never been above teasing him about his looks, when he'd known it was just a joke, but when they thought he needed it they tried very hard to be supportive. "You guys are a terrible influence on me," he said, smiling. "Just when I was turning into a healthy pragmatist, you start with the idealism. It's only going to cause me trouble in later life."

"We try," said Victor.

"Thanks," said Quasimodo.

"Anytime."

Quasimodo knew it was fruitless, but he decided to humour them. "She did kiss me on the cheek yesterday. That was something."

***

Claude Frollo stared at the cross beside his bed, and then at the tiny, black-and-white photograph in his hand. It was the only one left. He'd destroyed all the others.

After a while, it felt as if it were burning into his hand, and he threw it to the ground in sudden rage.

The Gypsy girl- the defiant little bitch who had thrown insults at him in front of the whole school. He'd heard her voice today._ Singing_. He had tried to follow it, but he had been called away and when at last he could investigate, he had found nothing. She had _been_ there, when he had told her not to set foot in the school, and the thought drove him mad. She had disobeyed his threat and gotten away with it. She was taunting him, leaving herself open for attack and then ducking away just in time, and she was getting _away_ with it. He could feel her presence in the school, feel himself being watched by green eyes ringed with thick lashes, and every time he walked through the hallways, he saw a flash of dark hair disappearing around a corner, or the heel of a long, graceful leg, stocking-less and dark...

He would not _allow_ it.

Every day he could sense that he was getting closer to his prey- but time was running out. On Monday, her suspension would be over, and he would be forced to watch her walk in the hallways and bend over assignments and live out her day like any of the other teenagers, and she would be beyond his grasp. He would soon see her dancing on the stage again, her dark lips quirked into a taunting smile, and he would be forced to do _nothing_.

But no, he would not let her get away so easily. She had cheated him out of his prize, but if he was _clever_...

Frollo ran a hand through his hair, digging his fingers into his scalp.

He could make good his threat, and have her arrested. The police would take his side. She was a Gypsy- a liar, a cheat, a thief, just like the rest of them. They would take her away, and he would never have to see her again.

But even so... the idea of Esmeralda in a prison was a frightening one. It would destroy her; spoil her flawless looks and her beautiful body, extinguish her fire. Her defiance would be crushed. And she wouldn't be Esmeralda any more.

So he would give her a choice. He wasn't a monster. If she could... persuade him to let her stay at Notre Dame, he would be receptive. And maybe it would feel like everything was back the way it used to be, so many years ago, when he had believed that _she_ still needed him.

They were so similar, the two of them, both dark Gypsy beauties with sharp tongues and cruel spirits. His wife had burned with the very same fire that filled Esmeralda.

But unlike _her_, this Gypsy would be faithful. She would not betray him for some young charmer with red hair and blue-green eyes. Because if she did, she would find herself in a cell.

Esmeralda would be his, or he would destroy her.

***

When Esmeralda returned on Monday, the school felt... different. Something had changed, for the worse, and it did not take her long to figure out what.

The other Romany were all saying the same thing. Frollo had gone crazy.

He seemed to be everywhere; around every corner, in every stairwell and hallway, peering through every classroom door. He drifted through the crowds of the atrium like a shark through the shoal, and every time she was within his sight she could feel him _watching_ her.

Before going to his office, she had never had more than the vaguest, briefest of ideas about his racism. Now it seemed obvious; not just to her, but to all the other Romany students and even some of the rest. He swept down upon even the slightest of transgressions from any student with olive skin and black hair, and paid absolutely no heed to the crimes of any other. And the way he watched her, the way he always seemed to be near her and ready to pounce, made it clear to her that it was not merely an attack on her people, but an attack aimed at _her_.

She never would have freely admitted it, but she was scared.

Frollo's threats were still fresh in her mind. She knew what he could do. She knew that he was waiting for her to slip up, to make some kind of punishable mistake. Worse still, she could not bring herself to tell anyone- Not Quasimodo, who, despite disliking him, clearly felt some small loyalty to his adoptive father that she knew would have been cruel to destroy; and not Clopin, who would incite rebellion amongst the Romany without heed as to whether or not it helped her at all, or how much destruction it caused.

And so she kept her head down. She spoke to almost no-one, hurrying from class to class with fervor to make sure that she was never late, focusing on her coursework in case he planned to use her low marks against her. She wore her uniform as it was supposed to be worn, and removed all trace of jewelry except for a single golden hoop earring; she refused to take _it _off, no matter how frightened she was. She kept away from the arts department, in general. Frollo had begun to expect her there, and he seemed to have some idea of her secret stays there, because he had begun to pressure the teachers, threatening them with everything his authority permitted him to do. She trusted them not to say anything, but hanging around their classes would only make things worse for them.

Soon, he would catch her on something, and no matter how tiny, she would never see Notre Dame, Clopin, Quasimodo, or any of them again.

At the very end of her eighth school day since the suspension, Esmeralda witnessed something that changed things- perhaps only minutely, but to her, it felt tremendous.

She had just escaped from french class, and she felt miserable. Her teacher had asked her for a private word, saying that judging by her work, she'd gotten on track recently. It should have made her happy, but all she could think of was how she had been coerced into it.

She packed her bag quickly, anxious to get home where she felt at least temporarily safe. She left through the gym hallway, which was not nearly as crowded as the others at the end of the day. Everything seemed quiet, as if the whole school were holding its breath.

She rounded a corner, and when she looked down the length of the hall she saw Frollo at its far end. His eyes met hers immediately, and even at a distance, she could see the spark of madness in them.

Down the hall from Frollo, two Romany students, a boy and a girl, exited a classroom and walked side-by-side, oblivious to his presence.  
The girl gave the boy a small smile, and he leaned in and kissed her on the cheek.

Esmeralda felt it coming like a man tied to a train track feels the vibrations of an oncoming train. It was physically painful; to know what was about to happen and not be able to _do_ anything about it.

Frollo looked at her, his eyes meeting hers again. Then he turned, approaching the couple, his face contorted in disgust.

A complete hush fell over every student in the hall. The boy, seeing him, pulled away from the girl and started to walk away, but Frollo seized his arm to prevent him from leaving. She could not hear his words; only the tone of his voice as it echoed through the hall; but the expressions on the faces of his victims told her all she needed to know.

There was a brief moment in which it looked like the hand that Frollo was not using to grab the boy was touching the girl's jacket, and Esmeralda was not sure if she had imagined it.

And then, as she watched, a tall blond boy with an athletic build and a neat little beard appeared approached the Vice Principal, speaking to him in a firm, challenging voice. His expression was cool, but she could see his arms held stiffly at his sides, his hands balled into fists.

Esmeralda's brain supplied her with a name. "Phoebus?" she whispered under her breath, moving closer to hear what he was saying.

"-Is ridiculous! It wasn't even on the_ lips_, sir, and this wouldn't be the first PDA here! There are dozens of white couples doing it every day and they get a verbal reprimand, or ignored altogether. They don't get _suspended_." Phoebus spoke with a cool determination, and while his voice was not loud, everyone in the hallway was listening by now. "And this isn't the first time you've picked on the Romany kids for no real know what I think? I think you're a racist."

Frollo responded to Phoebus with the same tightly controlled fury; it twisted at the lines of his mouth and turned his eyes into hard pits. He let go of the boy's arm, turning to Phoebus. "You are an insolent boy with no respect for his superiors, and you will wish you had not said that very soon."

Phoebus stood his ground, and did not look frightened. Esmeralda, who knew the full extend of Frollo's madness, felt her breath catch.

"Sir, I respect my fellow students. And for their sake, somebody has to stand up to you."

He was a great loss to the drama department, Esmeralda thought. His words were measured and timed perfectly, for maximum effect, and each one fell like a hammer blow upon its audience.

There were too few students nearby to risk cheering; Frollo could have picked them all out. But Esmeralda could feel the undercurrent of support. They were on his side, even if no-one present would have willingly stepped into his shoes.

Frollo stepped closer, standing half a head taller than Phoebus. "We will discuss this in the office. Immediately."

Phoebus followed Frollo to the office, willingly and with a calm, stoic determination. Neither the Vice Principal nor the Football Captain said another word, at least until they were long gone.

Esmeralda looked at her watch, and decided she would catch a city bus home later. When Frollo and Phoebus had gone far enough not to notice her, she followed them at a distance and waited just beyond the stairwell door, where she could see anyone coming out of the office but they would not be immediately able to see her.

She didn't have long to wait. Perhaps ten minutes later, the office door opened and Phoebus emerged, looking angrier than she'd seen him look and crumpling a slip of paper in one hand.

Esmeralda ducked out of her hiding place. "Hi," she said immediately, drawing his attention away from the form he was destroying.

Phoebus looked up, and his expression changed from fury to mild surprise, and then he smiled. "Esme- No, hang on, I know it- Esmeralda. Hi."

"I saw that," said Esmeralda, gesturing in the direction of the hallway they'd both just come from. "That was- really, very brave."

"I don't think I'm the first to have done it," said Phoebus, "You probably have."

Esmeralda swallowed, knowing that he almost certainly _was_ the first. If he'd known how frightened she had let herself become over the last two weeks, he would never have said that. "No," she said, "I haven't. I've been too much of a coward- if I get into trouble again-"

"I understand," said Phoebus. "Tell the truth, I was following your example." He smiled again, a wide smile that was open and pleasant as well as handsome. "You've caused me enough trouble; I should have learned _something_."

Esmeralda smiled, stepping a little closer. "Sorry for spazzing at you earlier. I believe I misjudged you."

He held up his hands. "Understandable. Don't worry. You were right about those guys, like I told Quasimodo- Did he tell you about that?"

"Yes," said Esmeralda.

Phoebus's smile became slightly sardonic. "You two do look out for each other."

Esmeralda, fiercely protective of Quasimodo, was on the verge of taking offence, but she wasn't sure what he had meant by the comment, so she held it in check.

She looked at the remains of the paper in his hand. "He suspend you too?"

"Two weeks," said Phoebus, looking disgusted. "My parents will tear me to shreds. And he won't let me get my assignments from my teachers or anything. It's like he didn't even listen to a word I was saying."

Esmeralda knew the feeling too well. She had never witnessed real injustice until Frollo, and it had been a bitter shock. "Well, for what it's worth," she said, looking up at him through her bangs, "You did get that couple out of trouble. I bet they're grateful for that."

Phoebus looked at her, and smiled again. It made his velvet-brown eyes crinkle charmingly. He was gorgeous, but not boringly so- his face had life in it. "That's a good point."

"And," added Esmeralda, loving him being grateful to her, "I think I know someone who can get you your homework."

***

If Claude Frollo had ever made a list of people who irritated him most in this world, Clopin Trouillefou would have occupied the coveted top slot. The Gypsy boy had a way of effortlessly causing trouble without ever getting into it. Frollo knew he was up to something when he saw him lurking about the Atrium after classes with a clipboard and pencil, speaking to every student in turn and taking down rapid notes. There were only a few students still here, waiting to be picked up after extracurricular activities, and when Trouillefou had spoken to them all he slouched on a picnic table, jotting down further notes.

Frollo approached him, looking down on the half-sitting boy from an imposing height. Trouillefou was slightly taller than him when he stood straight, but unless he was onstage, he generally didn't. "I've seen you bother everyone present," said Frollo, "What have you been doing?"

Trouillefou looked up from his clipboard, and gave Frollo a huge grin. "Why, sir, I've just been doing a little- ah, how do you say it? _Survey_, I think. For my Political Science course."

Frollo found neither the explanation nor the broken English believable. And this boy was supposed to be a drama student... "Let's see your notes," he said.

"Avec pleasir," said Trouillefou, handing over the clipboard.

Frollo did not know what he had hoped to find, but he was disappointed. The Gypsy's handwriting was completely incomprehensible.

"I hope you don't call that penmanship," said Frollo, with a slight sneer. He found himself unable to summon up any more vehemence than that. The incident earlier that afternoon involving Phoebus Chataupers had drained him, and when Esmeralda was not present it hardly seemed worth it even with this little slug.

"No, sir," said Trouillefou, airily, his Quebec accent making him slightly difficult to understand, "I would never 'and that in. I am practicing for the University, when speed is very important in taking of notes."

Frollo wished he could have punished the boy for pretending to be excessively French. He also wished he could have punished the boy for having a stupid little beard and an even stupider earring, but he couldn't. "I'd work on your grammar first," he said, disgusted, dropping the clipboard onto the table and turning away. God Above, if he could find out where the Miracle Workers met, taking down that twittering clown would be deeply satisfying.

He took a final trip down the arts wing hallways, making sure everything was in order. Faint sounds of brass and drums emanated from the music room as the jazz band rehearsed. People were talking loudly inside the drama room, which was normal, and he was about to walk past when he thought he heard the word 'Esmeralda'.

Maybe he had imagined it, but he didn't care. Quickly, half-guiltily, he drew up to the door and pressed his ear to the crack. There was a magnet stuck between the door and the frame, to keep it from automatically locking, and he could hear everyone inside fairly clearly.

__

"-He's, like, her new best friend. She hung out with him all the time when she was suspended."

Frollo clenched his teeth. If they were really talking about her, he wanted to get his hands around the throat of whatever pimply little twit was hanging around Esmeralda.

__

"How unfair is that?"

"Don't be a jerk. She says he's actually really cool."

Frollo was inclined to side with the jerk.

__

"I just dunno if I could stand having to look at him all the time. I mean..."

"Oh, you get used to it, trust me. I saw that movie The Elephant Man and by the end it was just like, totally normal."

Frollo moved away from the door, fury twisting at the lines of his face. Within the past week, he had forgotten almost completely about the boy. It had never occurred to him that Quasimodo might make an alliance with someone like her. He'd been kind enough to let that naive little monster go to school and now-

But perhaps he could turn this situation to his own use.

He left the school immediately, smiling like a snake.

* * *

M'kay, nobody's claimed that prize. I'm just gonna tell you.

It's...

(Drum roll)

Paul Simon! 'Graceland' has to be the single best pop album ever.

Thanks as always to Attaloi and my Ma.

-Mostly Harmless


	7. This Time the Joke is On Me

Back again, guys, and without such a big wait this time!

For the partially illustrated version, search 'THSOND' on Deviantart. I especially suggest it for this chapter; there are _lots_ of drawings.

The High School of Notre Dame  
Chapter Seven  
This Time the Joke is on Me

Since he had begun his vocal class, Quasimodo found himself singing almost all the time when he was at home. He was doing a history assignment, bent over a paper full of cramped cursive. Classic rock blared out of his computer speakers, and he was almost unconsciously making up a harmony to "Love Me Do".

Almost inaudibly over the Beatles, the doorbell rang. Quasimodo paused the song and peered out the window to see who had come to the door. Experience and common sense dictated that he never answer the door unless the visitor had seen him before, which meant that he only ever answered it for Mr. Solance and for Victor and Hugo when they occasionally locked themselves out.

From the second storey window of his little computer den, he could see two figures. One had a mass of dark, curly hair that gleamed like polished glass in the light, and the other was blond.

He had invited Esmeralda to come over anytime, but he hadn't expected her to take him up on it, especially when he'd been seeing less and less of her. She'd said she had decided to concentrate on her studies, but he had a strong idea it was more to do with Frollo pushing the Romany kids around- so why would she come to the home of her tormentor? And why would she bring _Phoebus?_

Despite his confusion, he was very happy to see her, if not Phoebus. He bounded down the stairs and to the front door.

When he opened it, Esmeralda immediately launched herself at him, grabbing him in a forceful hug. "Quasi! I hardly get to see you anymore!"

Quasimodo, surprised but not displeased, blinked. "Um. Nice to see you too, Esme."

Still in the doorway, Phoebus coughed uncomfortably.

Esmeralda seemed to remember something, and let go of him. "Frollo's not here, is he?"

"No, no," said Quasimodo, "He won't be back for hours." He looked at Phoebus, and could not keep a trace of dislike from his face. "So... what -?"

"You've met Phoebus, right?" said Esmeralda.

"Yes..." said Quasimodo, wishing she'd just tell him what was going on.

"I was hoping you could do something for me," she said, "I know I've already asked you for so much..."

"Of course I will," said Quasimodo, without hesitation.

Esmeralda glanced at Phoebus. "Phoebus was suspended for standing up for a couple of Romany kids Frollo was picking on. I thought maybe you could help him get his homework like you did for me?"

Quasimodo was much less pleased with the idea of helping Phoebus than helping Esmeralda, but if she wanted him to do it, he would. His expression tightened slightly, but he nodded. "Come inside."

They followed him into Frollo's study, and as they went Esmeralda stared at her surroundings. "This is quite the house, Quasi. Is Frollo a millionaire or something?"

"I hate the ground floor," said Quasimodo, "It's all show. You can tell it's his house." You could, too- the decoration was formal and uncomfortable, as cold as the tile floors. The paintings on the walls were not so much works of art as backgrounds for ornate frames, and there was very little colour. As they passed the living room, he pointed to an emboidered armchair. "No one's sat in that for about six years."

"Really? Why?" asked Esmeralda.

"It's extremely uncomfortable. And we don't entertain much."

Phoebus snorted. "I bet you don't."

Oh, shut up, thought Quasimodo, but he didn't say it out loud. He led them upstairs, and pushed open a set of smoked-glass double doors that he normally went through very rarely. "His computer's in here. Give me a moment- you guys can wait in the den if you want. It's a lot nicer." He gestured to an open doorway across the hall, through which a snatch of a carpeted, sunlit room could be seen.

Esmeralda smiled. "It might be better if I keep out of your stepdad's study. Thanks."

Phoebus, looking awkward and a bit puzzled, followed her into the den. Quasimodo slipped into Frollo's study, feeling like a criminal, and started up his computer.

--

Esmeralda wouldn't have called herself poor, because that implied that she needed more than she had, but this house almost made her jealous.

What Quasimodo had said about the bottom floor was true, but this room was beautiful. It wasn't simply the size of the room, or the light, or the lovely view of the Gatineau Hills, it was the art. There were posters everywhere, some for bands and movies and some that seemed to be from art gallery exhibitions. A wind-chime made from coloured glass beads hung from the ceiling. On top of the computer monitor was perched a small, exquisitely painted carving of a lizard, set into a small plaque that said 'monitor lizard'. She smiled at that, and wondered if he'd done it himself.

"Interesting guy," said Phoebus. "Thanks for the help, by the way."

Esmeralda flopped down on the couch, welcoming its softness after what had been a hard day. "Suspension's a lot less scary when there's people to help you out, eh?"

Phoebus sat beside her, and for a moment she thought he was going to put his arm around her. When he didn't, she found herself wishing she had. Her arms felt cold.

"You deserved applause, not suspension," said Esmeralda. It still seemed bitterly wrong that he be punished for doing something so obviously right. "This is so unfair it just-"

To her surprise, Phoebus took her hand and squeezed it gently, cutting her off. His own hands were rough and very warm. "It's alright," he said, with a smile, his brown eyes meeting hers, "I'm not really much for cheering crowds, you know. Besides, I don't think I mind being suspended so much."

Esmeralda realized how close their faces were. She could feel his breath on her cheek. She hesitated for a moment. Then, feeling like a skydiver leaping into free fall, she leaned in and kissed him.

His lips were warm and they tasted very faintly of something with tomato and basil in it. The kiss was long and deep. She wondered if he could tell she had a retainer, and then realized she didn't care at all.

--

For the first second or so, what he was seeing didn't make sense and he couldn't believe it. Then the reality of it hit him like a physical punch in the stomach.

Phoebus, a football player with a perfect face who only weeks ago she had hated-

__

Why?

Neither of them had seen him open the door. They were too busy making out.

He couldn't stand to watch anymore, and he silently closed the door and backed a few steps down the hallway. The printed homework pages crumpled slightly in his hand. He blinked back tears.

Had there ever actually been- No, of course not. How had he even begun to think that there might have been? He was _deformed_. Of course Esmeralda wouldn't-

But _Phoebus? _She had to know she was worthy of more than that.

He had never had a prayer. Of course. He could see that now. Maybe Frollo'd been right and they did all _hate _him-

Or just pity him, and he didn't know which was worse.

Quasimodo rubbed his sleeve against his eyes, swallowed, and looked at the pages in his hand. Trigonomitry, Philosophy, French, all for Phoebus. He was helping him for Esmeralda. And even though there was no hope they might ever be more, she was still undeniably his friend. He owed her too much to refuse her.

He waited until he could breathe again, until they _had_ to be finished. Then he went inside, holding the pages and trying to look as though nothing had happened.

Esmeralda was holding Phoebus's hand and looking pink, and Phoebus looked pleased with himself. Smug, smirking pretty-boy, thought Quasimodo.

"Here," was what he said aloud, "A- All your subjects, next full week. The, uh, overhead note is in there too."

Phoebus took the notes, looking over them with eager eyes. "Great. Thanks."

Quasimodo hated the idea of helping this pompous ass.

Esmeralda seemed embarassed by the idea that she'd been making out with another guy in Quasimodo's den, and looked at the carpet. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence.

All three of them heard the sound of a car pulling up the driveway.

Quasimodo raced to the window, his heart beating a tattoo on his throat. A big black car had just pulled up, and Frollo, grey-haired and business-suited, was getting out of it.

"He's here!" said Quasimodo in an urgent whisper, irrationally worried that Frollo would hear his voice from outside. "You've got to go!"

Esmeralda leapt to her feet, followed closely by Phoebus. "I thought you said he wasn't getting back for hours!" hissed Phoebus.

"I thought he was; he's _never_ here this early! You'll have to go through the back; come on." He pulled the door open and scrambled down the hall, looking back every other moment to ensure they were still with him.

He lead them down the stairs and out the back door, into a fenced-in suburban yard that was blissfully out of sight from the front. "Sorry; you'll have to hop the fence. I've got to go; I'm not supposed to be out here."

Esmeralda stopped him as he started to go back, catching him in a brief, fierce hug. "Thank you," she whispered, and then she turned and scrambled over the top of the fence.

Phoebus made no move to leave the yard, but there was no time to worry about him. If Frollo noticed Quasimodo wasn't in the house, there would be serious trouble.

He opened the back door as quickly and quietly as he could, and slipped inside. He was now in a kind of pokey back hallway of the lower floor that he didn't go into very often, because it had no purpose other than to connect the back door with the living room. He wondered how far into the house he could get without being noticed, and took a few tentative steps forward.

Frollo appeared around the nearest corner, and Quasimodo jumped and then froze.

The old man narrowed his eyes. "Dear boy. What are you doing here?"

"Um. N-Nothing- Sir," stammered Quasimodo. _OhGodneversaynothingit'ssoobviouslyalie! _"I'm- l-looking for something. Er."

Frollo raised an eyebrow, looking intruiged. Or at least pretending to. "Really? Down here? Whatever for?"

"N-nothing," said Quasimodo, before he could stop himself. _What'ssomethingplausibleohGod- _"I- I can't find one of my wood knives."

"Well," said Frollo, grinning his wide, reptilian grin. "I'll tell you if I see it." He made no move to leave, and continued to watch Quasimodo.

"Um," said Quasimodo, feeling a bead of sweat slide down his face, "you're home very early, sir." Frollo had to know something was up.

"Yes," said frollo, still grinning. "At last, a little quality time at home."

Frollo wouldn't have known the meaning of the phrase 'Quality time' if it hit him with a brick, Quasimodo thought. Something was very seriously wrong.

"I have a bit of a triumph to celebrate tonight, Quasimodo," said Frollo, watching him intently.

"Wh-what's that, sir?" asked Quasimodo. It was all there was to do.

"A drug bust," said Frollo, with a flourish. "Finally, I am helping to clean up our dear school community."

Ethnic Cleansing's more your style, thought Quasimodo, though it was an exaggeration.

"A little gang of dealers and users known as the Miracle Workers," Frollo continued. "Ever heard of them? I've finally found their hideaway- and there's to be a raid later tonight. I think I'll go along."

Quasimodo felt cold. The Miracle Workers. That meant Esmeralda.

How could he have found them? They were so secretive, so careful… Almost too careful, for just a club.

Was what Frollo said true? He knew his stepfather was not really to be trusted normally, but... Esmeralda was a rebel, he knew that much. It wasn't, logically, that unlikely that she might be a user, although the thought of it still felt utterly wrong. And then there was her friend, Clopin, more than mad enough to arouse suspicion.

And it would explain _Phoebus_.

He felt a strange, bitter heat fill his chest and throat, so that he could almost taste it. It singed at his fingers, drawing them into involuntary fists. He looked at Frollo, and was unsure of his own feelings towards the man. Fear had all but evaporated.

"Good luck, sir," he said, his face impassive.

Frollo looked almost imperceptibly pleased. " Thank you, dear boy." He looked as if he were thinking for a moment, though his eyes were cold and empty. "Well, on second thought perhaps I should leave," he said, turning away, "If I plan to join this raid I had best attend to a few matters at the school."

He left, and a few moments later Quasimodo heard the car leaving the driveway.

--

Frollo pulled into a little cul-de-sac off his own street, where almost no-one lived. He parked his car behind a tree, where it would be difficult to see from the road, and then got out and walked until he reached a neighbour's house only a few down the road from his own. From here, he could see the street in front of his house. He hid himself behind the fence of an elderly couple who rarely seemed to be home.

Had the Gypsies been trying to teach him to act? His sneer changed smoothly into a wide grin, as he remembered the brief look of utter, angry bewilderment on Quasimodo's face before he had forced himsef to go blank.

Hook, line, and sinker. Soon she would have no choice.

--

Phoebus lifted his ear from Quasimodo's back door, his jaw set. He'd been curious, and a little suspicious; now he was genuinely frightened.

Quasimodo couldn't lie to save his life. Why had Esmeralda trusted this poor kid with something so important as her own safety?

He felt a fresh surge of hatred for Claude Frollo, that sick, racist old man. Unless something could be done, dozens of innocent Romany teenagers would be arrested for no reason- Esmeralda one of them.

He tried the handle of the back door, and, finding it open, peered inside. Quasimodo stood frozen in the hallway with his back to Phoebus, still unmoving, even thought his stepfather had driven away several seconds ago.

Phoebus cleared his throat, and Quasimodo started slightly before turning to face Phoebus. He looked shocked and angry. "What are- Why didn't you leave?" he demanded.

"I was suspicious," said Phoebus. "And I was right. Come on, we've got to warn the Miracle Workers." He gestured for Quasimodo to follow, turning on his heel. It would be a long evening- he didn't know where the Miracle Workers met, and while he had a few ideas as to where they could start looking, it would take a long time to find them.

It took him a moment to realize that Quasimodo had not followed him. He stopped and turned back to the open doorway, his hands in fists. There was no time for this.

Quasimodo looked just as frustrated and angry as Phoebus felt. "I can't."

Phoebus closed the distance between them in a single step, drawing himself up. He knew the hunch-backed boy could easily have turned him into pulp if he had wanted, but Esmeralda's safety was at stake, along with that of dozens of other innocent kids. "Aren't you supposed to be Esmeralda's friend? Do you have any idea what you owe her?"

Quasimodo glared at the floor, and Phoebus realized just how ugly the boy was. He looked like a melted waxwork, like some sort of grotesque carving that was trying to be human. "I told you, I _can't_," he said tersely, his unnatural, craggy teeth set, "I'm not even supposed to be _outside_- what do you think's going to happen if we walk down the street in broad daylight?"

"You might develop a spine?_ We've _both stood up to Frollo- Now it's your turn."

Quasimodo let out a small, bitter laugh. "What's the worst he can do to you, expell you?" He pointed a thick, calloused finger in the direction in which Frollo had left. "Would you like to _live_ with him?"

"If I did I wouldn't sit by and let him do what he's doing." Phoebus turned away, disgusted. "No wonder you need Esme to protect you," he said, over his shoulder, as he crossed the back yard, "You're a coward."

Quasimodo said nothing. Without needing to turn and look at him, Phoebus could imagine the look on his face. He did not hop the fence, unwilling to risk not being able to do it and looking like a fool, but went around the side. There was a small latched gate, similar to the one in his own yard, and he let himself out, not bothering to close it behind him.

--

Quasimodo slammed the back door behind him. It splintered slightly on its hinges.

He wasn't a coward- Phoebus could go to hell-

He put a hand to his head, only vaguely aware that the hand was shaking.

What did Esmeralda need _him_ for, when she had that stupid blond pretty boy? Time to throw in the towel- he'd taken too many risks. He couldn't have Frollo mad at him. Esmeralda didn't need his help.

He looked up, and saw light streaming into the hallway, reflected off the surface of one of Frollo's old paintings.

__

I am looking at you.

He paused, his eyes widening. Then he rushed upstairs and frantically began searching for a file that he knew he had saved somewhere is his computer. Esmeralda might not need his help- but Phoebus sure as hell did.

* * *

Okay, so, yeah, that was that.

Hates writing romantic scenes

Thanks as always to Attaloi and my Ma.

-Mostly Harmless


	8. But Mess Them Up We Do

Hah! I did it!

I never thought I'd have time to post this until next week. But I did!

anyway, on to buizness. For the partially illustrated version, search 'THSOND' on Deviantart.

The High School of Notre Dame  
Chapter Eight  
But Mess Them Up We Do

Quasimodo found Phoebus only half a block down his street. He'd been lucky- much further and he might not have been able to catch up. He had kept to cover of houses, mostly, and now he stepped out from behind a garage about a hundred yards away. "Hey! Phoebus!" he called.

Phoebus turned to look, and then smiled wryly. "You decided to man up, eh?"

Quasimodo knew Phoebus had won, but he wasn't going to listen to him gloat. "You need my help finding her anyway."

"Y'know, I'm not sure I do," said Phoebus, looking annoyed, "I think I know this town pretty well, seeing as I'm not afraid to walk the streets-"

"I've got directions," said Quasimodo, and Phoebus promptly ended his speech, looking expectantly at Quasimodo. "Well, what do they say?"

Quasimodo took the scrap of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. On it were a few lines of his own hurried handwriting. "Well, they're _sort_ of directions," he said, frowning.

Phoebus grabbed the scrap of paper, squinting at it. "_Begin at the north of a starry night. Turn towards-_" He stopped reading, his brows furrowed. "What the hell is this supposed to be?"

"It's a riddle," said Quasimodo, stating what he thought should have been obvious.

Phoebus glared at him. "Well why did you-"

"I didn't write it," said Quasimodo, irritably, "she sent it to me."

Phoebus started down the street at a high pace, forcing Quasimodo into a sort of lopsided half-run to keep up with him. For what had to be the millionth time in his life, Quasimodo wished he were normal. He would have been able to go faster if his legs were the same length. "This is nonsense," growled Phoebus. "Why doesn't she just give street names like everyone else?"

Quasimodo frowned, thinking of the first line. "She does," he said. "Give me the paper."

Phoebus thrust out an arm at Quasimodo, the scrap of paper crumpled slightly in his hand. Quasimodo took it, and grinned triumphantly. "Begin at the north of a starry night. _Starry Night_- Van Gogh!"

Phoebus looked perplexed, and angrier still. His eyebrows were practically touching over the bridge of his nose. "Van Gogh, like the painter? What's that got to do...?"

Quasimodo snorted, rolling his eyes. "You're an idiot, Phoebus, it means Rue Van Gogh. _Starry Night _is pretty much his most famous work. We start at the north end of Rue Van Gogh."

"Don't call me stupid," Phoebus warned.

"You _are_ stupid," said Quasimodo. How could Esmeralda make out with such a Putz? "How do we get to rue Van Gogh from here?"

Phoebus leapt on the question. "_Now_ who's the idiot here-" he began, his expression vicious. But then he cut himself short, and stopped walking altogether. "Okay, hang on a minute." He held up his hands, a gesture of peace. "I can't figure out the... weird Arts riddle, and you don't know your way around. If we want to find her we're going to have to work together."

Quasimodo hesitated. He looked at Phoebus, with his cocky smile and blond hair and chiselled good looks. Then he looked at the note in his hand.

He couldn't leave Esmeralda's safety in the hands of such an idiot. "Okay," he said, scowling, "fine. For her sake. Now how do we get to Rue Van Gogh?"

Phoebus stared to walk again, gesturing impatiently for Quasimodo to follow him. "It's a little ways from here."

Quasimodo suspected the longer-legged Phoebus was going so fast more to bother him than help Esmeralda, but he did not allow himself to fall behind.

"What's the next bit say?" asked Phoebus.

Quasimodo examined the paper. "T_urn towards Hell-child's doom at the first opportunity_," he read.

"_Hell-child's doom,_" said Phoebus, dubiously. "Geez. Maybe Frollo wasn't making the drug thing up."

For a moment, Quasimodo wondered if it _was _true. Then he looked at the riddle again, and laughed out loud. No. Drug dealers would not write a riddle like this. "Oh, _wow_, Esme," he murmured, still laughing.

"What?" Phoebus demanded. "You know what it means?"

"I don't believe it," said Quasimodo, grinning, "It's a Hellboy reference. The right Hand of Doom. So we take the first right."

"Uh… Hellboy?" Phoebus was clearly unfamiliar with the concept.

Quasimodo sighed, rolling his eyes. "It's a comic book series."

"I don't read comics," said Phoebus.

"I'm not surprised," said Quasimodo, "Literacy in general doesn't seem like your style."

Phoebus bristled, looking mildly hurt. "That was uncalled-for."

Quasimodo looked at the pavement, chewing his lip. It _had_ been uncalled-for. Phoebus could have made thousands of cruel remarks about his looks, but he hadn't, and Quasimodo owed him the same courtisy. "…Yeah. Sorry," he muttered, feeling flushed and annoyed at Phoebus for having a point.

Phoebus smiled, apparently pleased with the progress he was making. "Y'know, I've been trying to figure out why we seem to hate each other so much."

Quasimodo resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. "Any breakthroughs?"

"Sort of," said Phoebus. "I think you're jealous."

Despite whatever brief truce had been made between them, Quasimodo badly wanted to punch the blond boy in the face and take away some of his precious good looks. He set his teeth, his face twisting into a firm, ugly scowl. "Jealous?" He said, his tone ironic and bitter, "Now why would_ I_ ever be jealous of _you_, Phoebus?"

Phoebus looked perturbed by the sudden bout of vicious sarcasm. "…Huh. Well, it's not just the looks thing, is it? You wouldn't be jealous of every guy you met- I mean, not meaning that as an insult, but…"

Quasimodo looked at Phoebus, uncomfortable, trying not to offend even after a heated argument, and his anger melted into exhaustion. It wasn't fair to hate him. Quasimodo knew he'd been behaving like Frollo, mean and bitter and vindictive about petty things. "Don't worry about it," he said, looking at his shoes, "it's not like I haven't heard it before."

Phoebus frowned slightly. "It's not- Oh, God, is it Esmeralda?" He suddenly looked horrified. "I know you're crazy protective of her and all but…"

Maybe Phoebus was a little more perceptive than he seemed. But what kind of a lunatic wouldn't be smitten with her? He said nothing, still staring at the ground and feeling humiliation roll off him in waves. It was one thing to think of her like that in his own head, but Phoebus knowing about it…

Phoebus took his silence for a yes. He still looked shocked, and saddenned, and it ony served to make Quasimodo feel more ashamed. "Oh, man, I'm sorry, but-"

"No," said Quasimodo, looking up at Phoebus in an attempt to salvage his own pride, "It's okay. I never thought- er- you know." He felt his face flush, and the heat was almost unbearable under the glare of the Semptember sun. He swallowed. "She's happy, that's what matters."

There was a pause. Phoebus looked almost touched. "That's- really mature of you." He let out a small, nervous laugh. "Way better than I could do- I'd _hate_ me if I were you."

Quasimodo smiled. "Well, one more thing, Phoebus."

"What's that?"

He grabbed the blond boy by his collar, as he had done only weeks ago, and lifted him bodily into the air. Phoebus looked almost unsurprised. "For every tear she sheds on your account," said Quasimodo, with what would have been a very threatening manner were he not still grinning, "I will personally remove one of your vital organs."

Phoebus pretended to look terrified. "What if we're chopping onions or something?"

"For those, I'll be very generous- just your appendix." Quasimodo set him down, releasing his collar. "You don't even _need_ that."

--

Quasimodo looked around, glad that dusk was falling. Rue Van Gogh was nearly empty, but not entirely. He wished he'd brought a coat, or something more concealing than his school uniform.

"D'you get the impression we're being watched?" asked Phoebus, with a grin.

"Don't remind me," said Quasimodo, feeling the eyes of every pedestrian in the street boring into him. "My only consolation is we won't get mugged. Everyone's too scared of me."

"So there are some perks then?"

Quasimodo got the impression Phoebus was still trying to cheer him up, after earlier, and he was mildly grateful. Even if it was a little patronizing, it was effective. He never would have dared to do this on his own. "Well, I always get plenty of space in a crowd."

"Here's the right turn," said Phoebus. "Rue Danté. _Hell-child's doom._"

"Whoever wrote that thing is very clever," said Quasimodo, brandishing the riddle. "_Where the numbers turn Prestissimo, hail Cesar,_ _but go round the back to the door as blue as Elphaba. _Huh. I get the first bit-" He frowned, trying to remember from voal class how many beats per minute _prestissimo_ meant. "When the street numbers hit about 220… but I dunno about the hail Cesar bit. And the doors- Elphaba's green, not blue, everybody knows that."

"Uh," said Phoebus, looking awkward.

"Never mind," said Quasimodo. "Maybe it'll make sense when we get there."

They walked a little further, in quiet, and darkness was falling fast. Quasimodo, who had previously blessed the dark, started to wish he had a light. He thought he could hear footsteps behind him, but when he looked over his shoulder, there was no-one there. Rue Danté was a mix of houses and stores, and it seemed to go on forever. When they knew they were very close to the street number they needed, a hulking, circular building appeared from behind a thin veil of city trees. It was lit up like a great round beacon by yellow spotlights, parking lot crammed with cars. _The Coliseum Cinema_, proclaimed the sign.

Quasimodo and Phoebus looked at each other, and for once Phoebus was clearly thinking what he was thinking.

"When in Rome," said Phoebus. "I should have figured. Where are we supposed to go now?"

They approached it through the parking lot, Phoebus without hesitation, Quasimodo skirting around cars to keep mostly hidden. No-one was in the parking lot, but it made him more comfortable. "We go in," he said. "Though the door as blue as Elphaba, whatever that's supposed to mean."

Phoebus stared at the building's façade. "Uh, Quasi- the doors are _all_ blue."

"Oh," said Quasimodo, feeling foolish. Had they come this far just to- Oh, but of course. He snapped his fingers. "That's it- we're looking for a door that _isn't _blue. Green, probably. And it'll be round the back."

He followed Phoebus to the back of the great, circular monolith, thinking that this was how bank robbers must feel when they successfully cracked their first safe. There was much less light back here, and the façade was not nearly as glamourous- there were no giant letters or movie posters, only a series of dingy blue doors, one of which had lost its paint to reveal greenish rust underneath.

"That's the one," said Quasimodo. He hesitated, reaching for the handle, and looked at Phoebus. "For Esme?"

"For Esme," Phoebus agreed, and Quasimodo tried the handle.

The door was unlocked, and despite its ancient, rusted appearance it opened quietly. They found themselves at the top of a staircase, and there was a warm glow visibly eminating from somewhere near the bottom. They could hear racous laughter from somewhere.

"Age before beauty," said Phoebus, slipping inside. Quasimodo, rolling his eyes, followed him down the staircase, and as they descended the voices got louder, and they could hear muffled snatches of conversation. From the sound, there were quite a lot of people inside.

There was a brief stretch of unfinished hallway after the staircase, bolts and rough wooden planking showing through like x-rayed bones, and it led to a wide doorway that had been decorated to an almost gaudy extent with masquarade-style masks and colourful strings of beads. Above the door was a small plaque that read;

**The Miracle Workers  
are hosted, sponsored,  
and entirely created by the  
Trouillefou family.**

"I guess Clopin's family owns the theatre," said Phoebus, tapping his fingernail against the hard laquered surface of one of the more colourful masks. "Looks like his kind of… thing."

"You know him?" asked Quasimodo. He wouldn't have thought the captain of the football team would have mixed much with the drama kids.

"Not personally," said Phoebus, "but everybody knows_ about_ him. He pretty much owns the arts department."

Quasimodo knew it was true, and wondered how he'd managed to keep out of Clopin's way since his traumatic first day. He didn't entirely like the idea that he was about to come face-to-face with him. He didn't want to hold a grudge over the first day, since Esmeralda was so confident that Clopin hadn't meant to cause any harm, but the idea of meeting someone so influential and talented was daunting.

Phoebus did not seem to notice Quasimodo's anxiety. He tried the door handle, scowling when he found it locked, and rapped on the door with his knuckles. "Hey! Let us in, it's important!"

--

Clopin held a needle in one hand, threaded with a double-length of blue thread, and an oddly-shaped piece of felt in the other, and he had one eye on what he was sewing and one on the film that was playing, projected onto a screen similar to those in the theatre upstairs. It was _Casablanca_, chosen by Esmeralda, and Rick was wondering, vocally and drunkenly, why Elsa had come back into his life. Clopin had always identified most with Sam, their black piano player. He had a theory that Sam had been trying to get Rick back together with Elsa from the very beginning. Esmeralda, beside him on one of the old, beat-up sofas, was watching the screen with rapt attention, already crying a little. She empathized enormously with Rick.

In the other room of their basement clubhouse, almost every Miracle Worker besides Esme and himself were watching _Bon Cop, Bad Cop_ and having what sounded like a roaring good time, but he knew Esmeralda had been having a rough few weeks and he was happy to give her a bit of company. Not only was it beneficial to her, it might prove useful to him.

She seemed happier than she had been in a long time, but she wasn't yet willing to tell him why. He planned to keep working on her, because the reason for her happiness was no doubt a vital detail.

Suddenly, a girl whose name was Amy stuck her head through the doorway and cleared her throat to attract his attention. "Clopin?"

He looked up. "Oui?"

"Someone's at the door. Not members. They say it's important. Should I let them in?"

"I'll deal with it." Clopin laid a hand on Esmeralda's shoulder, letting her know he'd be back, and speared his needle through the fabric he was working on for safekeeping. Then he set it aside and got up, following Amy into the larger room.

The someone who had been at the door was still at the door, knocking loudly and impatiently. Clopin bent slightly at the knees to look through a peephole in the door-frame, cleverly placed so that it looked directly through the eye-holes of one of the masks pinned up outside. He found himself looking at a well-built blond man, only a little shorter than himself, who still wore the Notre Dame school uniform, complete with a tiny pin that proclaimed him to be the Captain of the Football team. Clopin had a vague idea who he was, since they had been in the same Science class two years ago. Dweebus, or something like that. How had that _forengie _found his way here?

"Let us in!" said the blond one, in a voice that was heavily muffled by the wooden door and the noise in the room.

Clopin frowned, and looked again through the peepholes, trying to find the 'us'. It took him a moment- and then, when he adjusted the angle through which he peered through the holes, he saw the unmistakable form of Quasimodo, hunch-backed and red-haired and deformed. He had missed him, at first, because the poor boy was shorter by more than a head than his blond companion.

Clopin hesitated. That boy was the stepson of Vice Principal Frollo, who openly despised the Gypsies. Letting him in could endanger everyone here, even if he_ was_ Esmeralda's close friend. He couldn't risk the safety of the club.

…But then again- this might be exactly what he'd been waiting for! On the very night when Esmeralda's luck seemed to change, the deformed son of her tormentor had come with a mysterious stranger, bearing an urgent message…

He turned to the knot of Gypsies who had been distracted from the movie, and were waiting for him to make a decision. Normally, this would have been a choice he could make easily by himself, but when it came to Stories… "It's the lumpy kid," said Clopin, trying to get a laugh to hide his indecision, "with some football jock or other. Should I let them in?"

The Romany teenagers turned to one another, muttering. Most of them didn't seem too happy with the idea of two forengies entering what was supposed to be a Romany club, especially when one of them lived in the same house as Claude Frollo.

Suddenly Esmeralda appeared amongst the gathering of watchers, looking anxious and flustered. Clopin knew it took a lot to draw her away from _Casablanca_, and he motioned for everyone to be quiet so that she could speak.

"Phoebus and Quasi? Is that them?"

Clopin nodded. She didn't seem to have taken kindly to his casual insults.

"Let them in," said Esmeralda, without hesitation, and before he had a chance to make any kind of response, she had already crossed to the door and pulled it open.

The two white boys tumbled into the room, Quasimodo tense and quiet, Phoebus stressed and angry. When they saw her, they both let out breaths of relief. "Thank God," said Phoebus. "Why the hell didn't you let us in earlier?"

Clopin decided that this football captain fellow had to be a piece of the puzzle. Esmeralda had never talked to him before, and-

Was _he_ the one who'd-?

Clopin swallowed. "Eh, Well, you know, security and all that, it's a tough time for us-"

"Yeah, I know," said Phoebus.

"Lumpy kid," said Quasimodo, dryly, looking up at Clopin. "Nice one."

Esmeralda stepped between them, speaking to the entire room. All eyes were on the four of them now, and the TV blared unnoticed in the background. "As far as I'm concerned, these two ought to be members. You don't know how much they've done for me- and for all of us. Rena and Michel could tell you that."

She gestured to a young couple who stood a few feet away, and they nodded, wide-eyed. "He-he stood up to Frollo. He got suspended and we got away," said the boy.

Esmeralda cast Phoebus a look, out of the corner of her eye, and Clopin realized exactly why she had seemed so happy earlier.

"Look," said Phoebus, addressing the entire room as Esmeralda had done, "we're here to warn you."

He was a loss to drama, thought Clopin. He had a loud and spacious voice, and he captivated his audience.

"Frollo's told the police you're dealing drugs," continued Phoebus, and throughout the room there were sounds of outrage. "There's going to be a raid later tonight."

"But they won't find anything!" shouted one of the older boys, from the back of the room. "They can't arrest us if there's no evidence!"

Quasimodo had said no more than four words up to this point, to Clopin, and when he spoke, the room went quiet. His voice was not loud, but everyone heard him. "That won't stop him. He has friends in the right places- he'll have a way of getting what he wants."

There was a brief silence. The Gypsies looked at Clopin, at each other, searching for an idea of what to do. They were frightened.

Phoebus took charge almost instantly. "We've got to leave now. I'd take anything with your name on it with you, and any valuables- if they search this place I doubt you'll get them back."

Clopin found himself admiring the man's ability to take charge. Then something occurred to him, and he felt a sinking sensation in his chest. "Phoebus," he said in a low voice, as chaos broke out around them and Miracle Workers searched frantically for their belongings, "What about my parents? They own the theatre. If Frollo says there are deals going on on their property-"

"You won't be helping them by being here," said Phoebus, "If the cops come and this place is deserted, it'll be that much harder for Frollo to convict anyone. If there's no evidence, it's bound to be nearly impossible."

Clopin nodded, and turned to help the Gypsies get their things together.

No story was worth this.

* * *

Okay, there we go.

Anyone catch the Fish Called Wanda reference in this chapter? Hearts Kevin Kline

By the way, _Forengie _is a mildly rude (I think) Indian term for white people. Gypsies were originally from Indai, though nobody knew it (hence the name), so I figured it'd work.

Thanks as always to Attaloi and my Ma.

-Mostly Harmless


	9. I Would not Give You False Hope

Second-from-last chapter here, guys! Cue dramatic music

Searchy-searchy. I need pageviews.

On with matters literary!

The High School of Notre Dame  
Chapter Nine  
I Would not Give You False Hope

Esmeralda found her schoolbag, and slung it over one shoulder. "This is all I've got," she said to Phoebus, "But some of the others may take a while. There's stuff all over the place. They don't want it to look like anyone's been here." She sighed. "I know it was risky for you guys to come here- you don't have to wait for us; you should go."

"We're not going yet," said Phoebus, putting a hand on her shoulder.

A few feet away, Quasimodo tried not to watch, but found it impossible not to listen.

"How did you find us?" asked Esmeralda.

Here it comes, thought Quasimodo. The credit grab, the smarmy fake modesty, the gratitude kiss

"I didn't do anything," said the voice of Phoebus, "Quasi had your riddle. It didn't make any sense to me. Do arts students have their own language or something?"

Quasimodo turned, staring at Phoebus.

Esmeralda smiled in Quasimodo's direction, and it was like a sudden look at sunlight after years in the dark. "Yeah. It's called Nerd. Three weeks at ND and he already speaks it fluently." Her expression as she looked at him, Quasimodo realized, was one of deep pride. She was proud of him. "Thanks, guys."

Three sharp raps resounded through the room, coming from the opposite side of the door.

The room went utterly quiet. No-one breathed.

For a moment Quasimodo could not believe it was really happening. Navigating the streets, bickering with Phoebus, it had all felt like a far-off threat, something that would never really come to pass. Perhaps he hadn't believed his stepfather was really capable of it.

And yet here they were. He stared at the wooden door, through which they had been let in only minutes previously, wide-eyed and frozen in fear.

Clopin swallowed visibly, and, without making a sound, crossed to the door and opened it.

Six police officers in black uniforms stood in the hallway, and amongst them stood Claude Frollo. He wore a grin of triumph, and there were lines of outright madness around his eyes.

The officer in front seemed to be the one in charge, and she gave Clopin a look that clearly said, 'you have no power here. We control the situation.' Clopin did not flinch under her gaze. Quasimodo knew that he would have in the Romany boy's place.

"We have a warrant to search the premises and to perform body searches on anyone present," said the officer, "You will be held culpable if you do not comply."

Clopin swallowed, and nodded, opening the door wide. "Excuse me, officer," he asked, in a timid voice that did not argue, "what is this all about?"

"We have reason to suspect that several people here may be in possession of illegal substances for the purpose of using or trafficking. You understand, of course, that this is a very serious matter."

Clopin nodded, and his eyes found Frollo's. The hatred exchanged in that one look gave Quasimodo a sudden, horrible chill.

The cops began singling out Romany teens and searching their clothing, patting them down and going through jacket pockets with trained expertise. Quasimodo looked at Frollo, and saw him indicating to the head officer the girl, Rena, whom Esmeralda had referred to earlier in defense of Quasimodo and Phoebus. Two police officers instantly had the girl by an arm each, and were going through her jacket- and then one of them drew out something white, wrapped tightly in cellophane, and no, that couldn't be- But they were unwrapping it, and one of them tasted a speck of it on the tip of his finger, and said, "Cocaine. I'd guess about twenty ounces."

The room was completely silent, apart from the rustling movements of the police. Quasimodo could hear his own ragged breathing.

The officer in charge, a captain, nodded to her subordinate, and they clapped handcuffs onto the girl. She shivered, gazing around the room with wide, pleading eyes.

Frollo cleared his throat. He looked calm, almost serene, happier than Quasimodo had ever seen him. He murmured something to the commanding officer, who nodded and plucked a walkie-talkie from her belt.

There was a burst of static from the walkie-talkie, and she pressed it to her ear, never taking her eyes off the Romany teenagers. "Send back-up," she said. Then, in a louder voice, she addressed the entire room. "You are under arrest. You will be escorted from the premises shortly; you have the right to remain silent."

Under any other circumstances, Quasimodo would have laughed to realize that the cliché was true. Not today.

One of the policemen looked over at him, with an expression of unease. "What about… him?" he asked, in a low voice.

"If one of you officers would like to escort him home," said Frollo, calmly, "I know for a fact that he only just arrived. He's had nothing to do with this place."

Suddenly, Quasimodo knew how Frollo had found the Miracle Club. The realization felt like icy water being poured down his spine. He had followed them here.

They'd led him to her. If Quasimodo had stayed back, if he hadn't let Phoebus' taunts get the better of him, then all of this could have been avoided-

Frollo had tricked him, had used him blatantly, and he hadn't seen it coming. How could he have been so stupid?

And the drugs... Had that been Frollo's doing as well?

As two policemen grabbed his upper arms and began to pull him towards the door, he looked up at Frollo with wide eyes. "Why are you doing this?" he asked.

Frollo looked at him, and for a moment the serenity was gone and he looked demented and wrong. "Because it's right," he answered. He did not seem to believe himself any more than Quasimodo did. Then he smiled, the picture of a caring father, the lie only visible in his eyes. "Make sure he can't leave, officers. He's been in more than enough trouble for one night."

He was half-dragged out of the doorway. As the door closed, he saw Esmeralda cast a despairing glance towards him, before turning to Frollo, her face full of sudden fury.

The cops shut him in the back of a police cruiser. He did not protest, though he felt like a coward for it. Common sense told him that much worse would happen if he did. The ride was quiet, and he stared out of the barred window, barely moving even to breathe. It all felt like such a bad dream. He could never have imagined himself in the back of a police car, but worse still was the idea that Esmeralda would find herself where he was in mere minutes, handcuffed in place and bound not for home but for prison.

The two policemen glanced at him every so often in the rearview mirror, through the bars that separated the front cabin from the back, with horrified fascination. For once, Quasimodo didn't care.

He wished he could have been grateful to see his house again. They brought him downstairs, to where there was a door with an outside lock, and ushered him inside.

"Cheer up, kid," said one of them, looking slightly thrilled by the prospect of speaking to the hunchback, "You're off the hook."

Quasimodo could think of no response that would express how little that meant to him, and in an instant, the two policemen had gone, locking him in as they went.

--

Esmeralda watched them drag Quasimodo away, just as Frollo had dragged her away when she'd first tried to help him, and felt the irony of it all like a brand on her skin.

Then she turned to look at Frollo, and felt nothing but white-hot fury.

He'd touched the girl's jacket earlier that day, when he had tried to punish the Romany couple for kissing. She had not paid it much attention; she'd been preoccupied...

He had planted the cocaine. He was _framing _them.

It was so illogical, so childish and petty- He was mad, that was the only explanation. Frollo was completely mad. Why else would anyone do something so pointlessly cruel?

"You planted it," Esmeralda spat. "Earlier today- you touched her jacket. I saw."

Murmurs flickered through the crowd of Gypsies. Rena, still handcuffed, nodded furiously, her eyes wide. "He did."

The remaining police officers hesitated, halfway through clapping handcuffs onto the teenagers around the room.

Frollo looked at Esmeralda for what felt like a fraction of a second too long, and his lips curved into a thin smile. "It's tragic- the way young people today cannot take responsibility for their own actions. They always try to blame other people." He turned to the head officer, smiling pleasantly. "You know, as a vice principal, I am always more lenient with students who own up immediately."

Now they were putting her in handcuffs as well. Phoebus, beside her, receiving the same treatment, looked at Frollo with utter disgust. "Just as long as they're white," he muttered.

No-one dared say more than that. The officers' handguns, unassuming but deadly in their black belt holsters, did more than enough to quell the tides of mutiny that shifted unseen through the room.

Within minutes, more policemen were on the scene. Each one greeted Frollo as if it were an honour. The Gypsies were handcuffed, and piled into cruisers, too shocked and bewildered to speak.

--

Quasimodo sat on the cold floor of the basement, resting his forehead on his knee. He did not understand, could not believe, how this had happened.

How could Frollo have taken his stupid prejudice this far? Was there something else he stood to gain, beyond the simple, schadenfreude desire to do them harm?

Or, wondered Quasimodo, feeling cold and empty, was it really the truth? It wasn't entirely illogical. Maybe they really were drug dealers, and Frollo was really at least somewhat in the right- Because how would he have gotten his hands on twenty ounces of crack?

Nothing made sense.

Why did it matter so much to him, anyway? He had only met Esmeralda a month ago, when he'd gotten the _stupid_ idea of attending high school like a normal teenager. As if he'd ever be normal. He could have contented himself with the company of Victor, Hugo and Laverne, and been at least mostly happy, miles away from Esmeralda...

Anyway, she had Phoebus to take care of her.

He got to his feet, and began to pace the humid gloom of the basement. If he had listened to Frollo from the very beginning...

No. Whatever had really happened tonight, Frollo was still wrong. He was still a racist and a bully, and it had been him that had put Esmeralda in danger in the first place.

Swallowing thickly, Quasimodo crossed the room with sudden purpose and examined the locked door. It was thick, sturdy, made from stained oak, and by the look of the hinges it had been there since the house had been built.

The quiet was almost unnatural, and he wished Laverne and her nephews were here.

What would they have said? Even without their actual presence, he could imagine their reactions. Victor and Hugo, those same two who had picked Esmeralda out from the street and had begged him for details about their supposed 'relationship', would go on and on as if it were the Middle Ages about how he must not doubt the virtues of the fair maiden, must be the knight errant and rescue her from the jaws of the beast...

Laverne was more difficult. She would tell him-

Exactly what she'd always told him. To be strong. To accept what was and to be happy anyway.

But - in this context, what exactly did 'be strong' even _mean_?

Phoebus would have known, probably; he thought Quasimodo was a coward for not standing up to Frollo all this time. Maybe that was why it had stung so much. Not because it came from Phoebus, but because it was true...

He had been a coward in the past. He would not remain one.

He looked again at the hinges of the door. They were old, digging into the wood, which had begun to swell and fray with moisture.

That's another meaning of the term 'strong', thought Quasimodo, and his mouth became a determined slash. He stepped back, steadied himself, and slammed his shoulder into the door with all his strength.

The hinges buckled, ripping away from the splintering old wood, and the door sagged. He had to check himself to keep from falling through the doorway. He stood back, slightly shell-shocked, and rubbed his shoulder.

Not bad. In a moment, he had ripped the door cleanly from its frame. Very briefly, as any experienced woodworker might, he lamented the ruination of such a lovely old door. Then he shook himself and remembered why he had broken it down in the first place.

He clambered up the basement steps, breathing hard with panic. Now that his first clear obstacle was gone, he wasn't sure what to do next. What _could_ he do, anyway? The police all seemed to be in Frollo's pocket- they weren't about to listen to him. Why had he not thought about this earlier?

There had to be _something_ he could do.

As he reached the top of the stairs and tore through the main floor of the house, something made him pause. There was a videocassette tape, without a case, lying on the kitchen table.

He didn't think they had bought a VHS in a long time, and it didn't look like the kind you could buy. On the label, stark black capitals read, "Security log; Camera 08; 22/09/08".

Quasimodo picked up the tape, curiosity overcoming panic. The date- that was yesterday. He didn't know what a security tape might be doing in their kitchen, but it seemed certain it had something to do with Frollo.

He took the tape to the television in the den, where he knew the DVD player also played VHS, put it in, turned the machine on, and hit play.

The image that filled the screen was of a bank of glass booths, each with a telephone and a sheet of glass blocking one side from the other. He recognized the image. It was in all the crime shows and prison movies; this was where visitors spoke to convicts; through a telephone, separated by thick Plexiglass.

Frollo's connections to the police...

Nothing was moving except for a little clock in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen. Frowning, Quasimodo hit 'fast-forward'.

For several seconds the image jittered but did not change. Then, moving at unnatural speed, a tall, thin man, grey-haired and balding, entered the scene, and on the other side of the glass a bearded man in an orange jumpsuit appeared. Quasimodo had never seen the bearded man, but the other one was instantly recognizable; Claude Frollo.

He stopped it, turned up the volume, and hit play. The sound quality was poor, and it crackled like an ancient radio, but he could just make out Frollo's half of the conversation.

"-On parole in a week."

The man in orange looked only marginally impressed, and said something brief; Quasimodo could only guess at what it was, but it seemed like a question.

"Twenty ounces, or so," said Frollo, "As soon as possible and no questions asked."

Quasimodo could see why Frollo had taken the tape from the security log.

How could he have doubted Esmeralda?

He stopped the tape and ejected it, his hands shaking. The police might not listen to him, but they wouldn't deny evidence caught on tape.

--

They were crammed into holding cells that smelled like public washrooms, and told to wait. One by one they were escorted to another room where they could make a one-minute phone call, but none of them seemed to want to use it. They didn't want their parents to know where they were, or what had happened. Looking through iron bars at their shell-shocked, frightened faces, Esmeralda could hardly blame them, though she vowed that when her turn came she would call her family. The others didn't understand how real this was. If her parents could do anything to help her, it would be worth any punishment they could give.

She was one of the last to be allowed to leave. A policeman easily twice her size led her down a dingy, whitewashed hall, to a little room with nothing in it but a metal chair and table, a phone book, and a battered telephone. Then, his face impassive, he told her she had one minute and left, closing the door behind him.

Swallowing, in a panic to get the call made before her minute was up, she plucked the phone from its cradle and started to punch in a number.

Halfway through dialing, the door opened again. For a moment, she thought her minute was already over, and then she turned around, and saw the ancient, grinning face of Claude Frollo.

She wanted to attack him, felt sure she could leave a mark that wouldn't soon heal- but before she could react, he held up a hand, his mad snake's grin stretching even wider, and said, "Don't move. There is a man in uniform waiting just outside. Any hint of trouble and you'll find yourself looking at charges far beyond what you're already up against." It was just sick, she thought, how much he was enjoying seeing her and her friends suffer.

She glared at him, willing his to crumble to dust before her eyes. Never, ever, had she felt anger like this. She was so angry she could barely speak. "You- you sick, evil-"

Frollo cut her off with one hand, approaching her until he was much too close for comfort. She could see every line, every horrible detail of his grinning face, and he leaned in, whispering to her. "You still have a choice, you know. I could get you out of all this." His black eyes blinked, and she could see something like fire in them. "I simply require- something in return."

Esmeralda felt a surge of disgust and horror, bile-tasting and foul, rise in her throat. This man was a monster.

Frollo's face registered triumph. He thought he'd won. "Well?"

Esmeralda would not let him win.

She spat in his face, and her mouth twisted into a sneer.

For a moment he looked stunned, horrified, and then his face hardened into a mask of determined rage. "Little snake," he hissed, turning to leave.

As the door closed on her, Esmeralda knew he would ensure that whatever her companions suffered, she would suffer ten times over.

* * *

Well, we're almost done. I'll get the final chappie up ASAP. (It's already up on Deviantart if you wanna check it out.)

Thanks as always to Attaloi and my Ma.

-Mostly Harmless

"Police. Open up."


	10. These Days Are Ours

Final chapter, guys! Thanks to everyone who followed the story. We love you.

Search THOND for illustrated crap. Seriously. There are a bunch of colour frames this time.

The High School of Notre Dame  
Chapter Ten  
These Days are Ours

The door, made of bulletproof glass and polished steel, flew open, and Quasimodo barreled into the front lobby of the police station with an expression of near panic, tape clutched tightly in one hand.

The officer at the desk, who had been trying to hear as much as possible of what was going on in the holding cells without leaving his post, looked up, and froze, his eyes so wide the whites were visible on all sides.

"Never mind," said Quasimodo. He could understand the policeman's shock, but there was no time for the explanation he would normally have given. "Look," he began, panting for breath and trying to speak as quickly as understandably possible, "a bunch of kids got arrested tonight for drug trafficking. You've arrested the wrong people. This- this tape-" He held up the security log, gasping for air- "-This proves it. It was taken from your security files."

The man at the desk, still utterly bewildered, nodded slowly. Then he got up, expression still shell-shocked, and opened a door behind him, gesturing weakly for Quasimodo to go through.

Quasimodo hurried through, wondering if it was legal to scare a cop like that.

A wave of noise enveloped him- a babble of rapid conversation, occasionally punctuated by a panicked yell, or a cry. He was in a long hallway, ill-lit, whitewashed, lined with small cells. Each cell was full of teenaged children, all with the distinctive olive skin and black hair of the Romany, and as they saw him, their faces flickered with surprise and recognition.

Somewhere in the row of packed cells, Phoebus cheered.

A number of police officers were patrolling the cells or talking to each other in low voices. As soon as they noticed his presence, they rounded on him, all certain that he was not supposed to be here. Frollo was nowhere to be seen; nor was Esmeralda.

Quasimodo knew that simply stunning them into silence wasn't going to work a second time. He held out the cassette. "Before you do anything I think you all need to see this tape."

The Captain who had been in charge of the group with Frollo cast him a look of condescending pity. We haven't got time for you, it said.

Quasimodo felt desperation clawing at his stomach. "It's from _your_ security files," he said, holding it up so the stark black lettering of the label would be visible.

That seemed to stir their interest a bit. The Captain leaned forward to look; several others took a few tentative steps towards him.

"Hey," said one of them," it is."

"Where did you get that?" asked the commanding officer, her eyes narrowing. By this point, everyone in the cells was watching them.

"It was on Frollo's table," said Quasimodo. "He took it."

In the cells around him, he could hear whispers; could practically feel the spark of hope that flowed through them.

The Captain took the tape from him, examining it. "What's on it that we need to see?" she asked, looking still more suspicious.

Quasimodo took a deep breath, trying to stand tall and looked her in the eye. Throughout the block of cells, there was a hush. "Frollo framed them," said Quasimodo, "He planted the cocaine. This basically proves it."

She looked at the tape, her eyes dark and inscrutable. She might have been thinking anything. "This should be presented as evidence in court, after a full investigation. Not now."

Quasimodo realized with a horrible, sinking feeling that he knew nothing about how these things worked. There were rules; of course there were.

Had he really thought he could just rush in and save the day?

And what if it wasn't even enough to convict him? One video, in which he hadn't, as far as Quasimodo had seen, actually used the word cocaine, and the only live witness of the conversation owed Frollo his freedom...

He swallowed, and his gaze fell. He could say nothing.

"So that's it?" said the voice of Phoebus. Quasimodo turned, and saw him fight his way to the front of the crowded cell. "You've arrested more than forty people with one piece of evidence, and now that there's more evidence to counteract it you're not doing anything about it?" Phoebus looked angry, almost as angry as he had been in Quasimodo's yard, earlier that day. He could have stared down a charging bull. "You're just keeping us in holding cells until we get a trial- and who knows when that'll be? There's almost fifty of us! -Instead of _looking_ at the evidence?"

The way he spoke did not beg for attention, but commanded it. The Captain hesitated, looking with sudden unease from Phoebus' face, to the tape in her hand. "There are procedures..." she said.

"You've broken them for Frollo," said Phoebus. "We all know you have."

There was a beat of total silence. Then she turned to her subordinates. "Somebody get a TV in here."

There was a collective sigh, as every Romany in the room released a held breath. "Rock on _Forengies_!" said someone in the back of one of the cells.

It took a moment for them to find a television, but eventually one was located and carried into the cell block, so everyone could see. Teenagers jostled and argued to get a view in the crowded cells, but when the tape went on, no-one had to tell them to be quiet.

On the screen, at about the point where Quasimodo has stopped it, Frollo and the man in orange fizzled and snowed into view.

"Rewind it a few seconds," said Quasimodo. One of the cops jabbed the rewind button, then hit play.

"-Can arrange for you to be out on parole in a week," Frollo was saying.

The convict's reply was unheard.

"Twenty ounces, or so," said Frollo, "As soon as possible and no questions asked."

Gasps travelled around the cell block.

On the screen, the convict began to make another silent reply, but no-one was paying attention. "I knew it," the teens were whispering, "He framed us."

The cops looked uncomfortable. The video had made an impact. They cast each other sidelong glances and fidgeted with their key rings.  
And then, suddenly, the room went completely silent. Quasimodo felt the back of his neck prickle, and turned around.

Frollo stood at the far end of the room, and he looked more beast than human. His teeth were bared, dog-like, and he was shaking and panting with rage. His eyes were filled with hatred, with fiery black rage unlike anything Quasimodo had ever seen.

"_You_," Frollo spat, and everyone in the room drew back instinctively from him. "You disgusting unnatural little bastard! You betray me for the likes of_ these people_- just like your Gypsy _whore _of a mother!"

And then Frollo, demented, monstrous in his anger, threw himself at Quasimodo, kicking and clawing and reigning down blows with a savage ferocity. His strength, for a man of almost sixty, was shocking. Quasimodo could still have thrown him aside easily if he had had the presence of mind to do so, but he barely registered pain; all he could think of was that Frollo had gone mad, and that he had said _Gypsy_...

In an instant four policemen had pulled Frollo away from the boy and pinned him down, and Quasimodo stared at his stepfather, panting and still rabid with fury, with a wide-eyed look of sudden realization.

Frollo hated the Gypsies because sixteen years ago, one of them had betrayed him. One who mattered.

Quasimodo was panting as well, now, from sheer shock. He was dimly aware that his lip was bleeding, and that fresh bruises were forming on his arms, chest and back. Nothing seemed in focus but the mad, twisted face of Claude Frollo, spitting curses as the police cuffed him and dragged him away.

Frollo disappeared around a corner. More police officers were gathering, now; coming from all over the station, drawn by the sounds of confrontation. The Romany in the cells stared at Quasimodo, shocked and pale and wordless.

"Quasi, you okay?" said Phoebus, after a pause.  
Quasimodo took a deep breath, and swiped at the small trickle of blood from his lip with one hand. "...Yeah, f-fine..."  
At that moment, a door opened at the far end of the room, almost unnaturally loud in the hushed silence, and Esmeralda came in. There was a policeman holding her arm, her hands were cuffed behind her back, and she was wide-eyed and pale. She looked around the room, and her eyes settled on Quasimodo's face, on his cut lip and the bruise that was forming on his cheek. "What happened?" She asked.

There was a pause as Quasimodo tried to make coherent sense of it all. "...Well," he said, at last, smiling shakily, "I'm half-Gypsy."

--

It was almost Halloween, and in the crisp Fall afternoon, four students walked into town from school. They wore blue-and white uniforms under their coats, and as they walked, their feet kicked up the colourful, dry leaves that had accumulated around the sidewalks. The first was broad-shouldered, tall, blond and athletic. Holding his hand was a dark, well-proportioned young woman with a head of thick, curly hair. Not far from them was a very tall, lanky youth, equally dark, with shoulder-length hair and a slightly elastic way of moving. Finally, there was a shorter, red-haired boy, who walked with an uneven, loping stride. He was distinctly hunch-backed, and a few people who passed by the group could not help staring at him, but it didn't seem to bother him.  
"Good thing they gave you the house," Esmeralda was saying, "It's perfect for the party."

Quasimodo grinned. "All the ground floor needs is spiderwebs. Instant crypt."

The trial had ended days ago, and it was still fresh on everyone's minds. It hadn't take long, after they had handcuffed Frollo, for the police to drop the charges on the Romany. In the end, Frollo had been charged, and convicted, of Aggravated Assault, Sexual Assault, and Defraudation in the second degree.

In the end, he'd been jailed for six years, and guardianship of Quasimodo had been given over to Laverne. They'd been allowed to keep the house for the six years he was in prison, though it was technically still his legal property; but that was not going to stop them from doing what they liked with it.

The school had a new VP, who, while something of a robot, showed no criminal tendencies whatsoever. And, against their wished, the whole school seemed to think he, Phoebus and Esmeralda were all heroes.

It was strange, thought Quasimodo, how suddenly they all liked him. He'd stopped being 'that deformed kid', and now the whole school was almost... _defensive_ about him. As if he were a mascot, or something like it. Anyone who said the wrong thing about him would suddenly find themselves being verbally abused by a mass of angry Notre Damers, often with Esmeralda at its head. Don't talk about him like that, they all seemed to be saying. He's one of Us. It was mildly embarrassing, but otherwise quite sweet.

Both he and Phoebus had joined the Miracle Workers, and as they became fast friends, their initial dislike turned into a spirit of healthy competition. Clopin was happy to have them in his little club, and frequently teamed up with Quasimodo to provide Phoebus with a little protective-older-brother style harassment on the subject of his relationship with Esmeralda.

"Oh, Quasi, I wanted to ask," said Esmeralda, after a moment of comfortable silence that was broken only by the shushing of leaves underfoot, "How'd visiting Frollo go?"

Quasimodo shrugged. "Like you'd expect. He's still completely furious." Claude Frollo was still one of the few topics that made him uneasy, because he knew he would never share his friends' feelings of simple hatred.

"And you're still gonna keep visiting him?" asked Phoebus.

"Yes," said Quasimodo, "I owe him that much."

Phoebus looked at him steadily, with a trace of a smile. "You're a better man than I, anyway."

Quasimodo knew it would have made sense to hate Frollo. But despite everything the man had done, he had willingly taken him in, had provided him with a comfortable home and good care for fifteen years. And he'd suffered; there was no doubt about that. He had, at one point, really loved his wife. Her betrayal had turned him against the Romany, and against Quasimodo himself, but he had never completely stopped loving her. It was the memory of her, that betrayal, that had driven him mad.  
They bought party supplies along Rue Van Gogh, chattering about their plans for costumes and for the movie marathon. Then they took the quickest route back to Quasimodo's to decorate the place.

As they passed the turnoff onto Rue Danté, Clopin, who had been unusually jumpy that day for himself, waved them goodbye.

"What," asked Esmeralda, "you don't want to help us decorate?"

Clopin shook his head, smiling. "I would love to, Esme, but there is something I must do tonight. I'm sorry. I'll see you all tomorrow." And then, in his bouyant, dramatic way, he headed off down Danté, bound for his clubhouse.

"Weird," observed Phoebus. "Oh well."

The three of them went home, and, working together in the talkative and incredibly slow way of a group of close, teenaged friends, decorated Frollo's formal old house from top to bottom for Halloween.

Quasimodo knew that there were some things that would never happen. But what was happening instead was pretty great anyway.

--

Clopin tied off a thread, and surveyed his handiwork.

The Quasimodo puppet had been hard, but he'd got the shape about right in the end. Esme, Phoebus, and Claude Frollo had all gone much faster.

The script had been finished since the night of the trial. It was almost ready, and he was giddy with excitement. He'd hardly been able to keep himself calm in front of his friends.

He had known, from the first moment he had heard about that boy, that something big was coming. At the perfect moment, too, when his well of ideas seemed to be drying up. It had seemed like Providence was handing him the Story of a lifetime. It had taken him weeks to scrounge out the full story, by interviewing witnesses and by subtle quieries to Quasi, Esme and Phoebus, but he was fairly confident that now he had every detail.

The kids were going to love it.

And hey, he thought, stroking his goatee as a strange grin spread across his face, if it succeeded in his puppet theatre... He had always wanted to try his hand at writing for the stage.

_Fin_

And it's DONE! Wow. That three months of writing went by fast. I'd like to thank everyone who's reviewed and read along the way.

I AM doing a sequal, in the form of a series of connected oneshots. if you have an idea for one, let me know and maybe I'll use it! Oh, and this is probably too ambitious of me, but if anyone wants to wrte something set in this verse, they're welcome to.

Thanks as always to Attaloi and my Ma.

-Mostly Harmless


End file.
